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They are always warm. It’s a relief at first, equilibrium for Karlach’s engine, a change to remind them they’re both alive. Wyll strips down his clothing a little, still polished, for he’s not one to adopt the truly rough look of the Hells.
He clings to his grace, still, despite all he has sacrificed.
They grow tattered, still. Live around the edges; appreciate the faint chill of caves, let themselves focus on survival, on stolen and scavenged rations.
No time for an answer. Not yet. Karlach can-they both can hope there is one to be found here. They found one for the Absolute. They’ve survived so much and—
It may be up to the others to find her cure, and she wishes she was there with them. Once, after they’ve torn through a set of minor devils, she asks Wyll why he stayed.
That makes him pause. He’s had so many graceful words before, offers and apologies. “I would not leave you here alone,” he says, ducking his head lest his horns scrape upon the worn stone of the ceiling. “And I made this matter mine own when I sought to harm you.”
Karlach crosses her arms and looks down at him, just a little. She wants to say all those things about how she can take care of herself, how she survived here so long and can do so again.
Wyll Ravengard knows them, of course. The aftermath of his mistake with her was for him to seek knowledge. To seek to remedy the assumptions he’d made. The Blade of Frontiers has not broken. Just polished himself to a greater sheen.
“Devils aren’t great company, most of the time.” Karlach sits down and starts to cook a few bits of meat. Everything spoils fast in the heat, especially if it’s raw. Dried rations are the best, and they’ve found a bit of them. No one eats those too quickly.
“They can be quite charming when they desire something from you,” Wyll says, and there’s a twist in his expression, the curl in his lip that says he’s set his teeth into the back of it.
“Always want something from you. But not always the sort that benefits from asking nicely.” Karlach pokes at the roasting meat and wrinkles her nose. There’s not much need to ask from soldiers that just need to go stand in the way and probably die. And with anyone who survived a bit, well, it wasn’t as if there was always asking after that.
She’s not sure whether she’s jealous of Wyll on that account or not. Probably not. He cares too much for her to be angry at him. She’s already got a lot of practice at being angry.
“Eat this,” she says once the meat is properly seared on either side. “Hear anything from the others?”
“Not yet. If we don’t hear back I think we should check out that those weapon depots. Show them a little sting.”
“Mmm.” Karlach swallows the meat faster than she should. Somehow, with a burning engine at the heart of her, hot meat can still burn her tongue and throat. “I’m about due for smashing some devils.”
Or demons. The Blood War continues, nearly untouched by her absence.
Not all demons and devils down there, not at all. But they’ve been trying not to put themselves in the way of others. Tried to direct a few people out, even, though none have wanted to stick around for the fixing Karlach’s engine plan thus far.
Not that she can blame them. Hard to hold onto belief in things working out like that in Avernus.
Wyll eats his own food more carefully. He could do the fancy manners if he wanted to, but he’s never clung to them past all sense. No fancy teacups or good wine down here. “There are more demonic forces moving in already. They should cover our tracks.”
“Mmm. Just tell me what we need from there and I’ll try not to set it on fire.”
Wyll laughs, soft and chiming. “Food, camp supplies, and papers. They have shown no sign of spotting us yet, surprisingly.” He looks almost disappointed at the last; it’s good for him to be appreciated.
“I know you’re here,” Karlach says, and rests her hand on his shoulder, his cheek.
She can feel the way the texture changes, his face altered, defiance and contract and loss intertwined. He knew how much he’d lost in that moment, and she...well, the engine hadn’t felt like a loss at all. Still doesn’t, most of the time. It helped keep her alive.
Just as his choices had helped keep a whole lot of people alive.
Wyll relaxes after a couple seconds and leans into her touch. They haven’t done a lot of talking, not yet. It feels as if there isn’t much to say. He’s there, and so is she, and they’re both still alive.
Counts for a lot by her reckoning.
“Bet you the depot will have something fun,” she says, which isn’t quite a distraction. A shying away, maybe, but Karlach doesn’t need to get too into that. Her engine seems to have stabilized, so—
That counts too.
“You wish to throw the devils again? To prove how far you can launch them?” Wyll says, but there’s a glint in his crimson eye as he says it.
“Further than you.”
That makes him laugh, and they don’t get too much more into discussion that night. Just curl up together, her tail wrapped around his leg, and get what rest they can. They’ll make it be enough.
The depot is a small one, only a half-dozen guards, a tent, and some supplies buried into the hard ground behind. The sort of thing that can be moved easily, and quickly, and is no great loss if the Blood War takes it out.
They bristle at Karlach’s approach, but don’t draw their weapons until they’re close enough to see Wyll’s face and a better look at Karlach’s scars. Then there’s the screeching and the running and it’s easy for Karlach to rush in, alight, and clean the whole mess out.
The tent is smoldering by the time she’s done, but that’s the only part she’s set on fire. Wyll is already sorting through the supplies while Karlach prods at the documents. She’s got a better handle on the language. Most of them look simple: supply requests, reports of troop movements, but there’s one with a notice with a bad version of her and Wyll’s faces on it. Gets the horns right, at least.
She takes that and the movement reports and burns the rest. Let them sort through the ashes; it’s just another skirmish out on the front lines unless they leave a blatant clue behind.
“Find anything?” she asks when she’s finished, and starts to kneel down next to Wyll to take a good luck at the supplies.
“Rations, a mirror, and unfamiliar potions.” He holds one up for her inspection.
“Should be a basic healing sort. Has a kick to it, but it’ll clean up your wounds. Don’t rate anything better out here.” She picks the potion up with her scarred arm and tucks it into her pack. Never had one of those last long enough to go bad, and she doesn’t expect that to change either.
Can only go so long before they run into a real fight.
There’s a couple of lucky days, at least. Karlach gets to see Wyll dance, glorious even in his battered clothes, out on the edge of a forest grown out of blood and bone.
Eventually, at a safe distance, they find a scrap of a stream to drink from, with all the recent bodies downstream of the little cave that holds it. That’s dark, and cooler, and quiet enough that they can get a message in from the others, even if it’s very short.
Couple of leads, most of which probably won’t pan out (again), but there’s apparently something about shipments Gortash was sending that makes Karlach pause and take another look. Then asks Wyll to read over it.
“That does sound as if it were a material he would sell,” Wyll says, and there’s a little curl of his lip that reminds Karlach of just who his father is. Wyll’s world was the upper and lower parts of Baldur’s Gate, while hers was...well, the bad parts of Baldur’s Gate and then the Hells. She still isn’t sure which one of them got a worse deal on ending up.
Wyll didn’t have to come, though. She can give him credit for that.
There’s a lot of things to give him credit for.
“Wish I could go punch his teeth in again,” she says, without much weight behind it. Would be nice if that had solved it, had left her with a heart and nothing new to worry about. The Absolute is gone and yet she’d still die if she wandered back up and tried her engine.
“You did a most thorough job the first time.” Wyll takes a seat and pulls the map out from a pocket again. It’s starting to get worn, even with how careful he is with the thing. The ink is fading around the folds.
Karlach just shrugs; she can feel the heat building up in her chest again. “So, supplies. We got an idea where they’re going?”
Wyll taps one finger on the map. There’s something about the gesture that reminds Karlach of him with a blade. An impression of a dramatic flourish. “In this area. The map is rather lacking in detail.”
Karlach leans over; her horn brushes against Wyll’s shoulder. “Think I went there once. They had a forge, don’t remember more.”
Wyll leans back, his horns scraping on the ceiling. “If you look at the troop movements here,” another flourish of the finger, “and here, they’ve been assembling defenses against the demons. The supplies keep moving in that direction; they must have some insight on the demonic movements. Or they’re maneuvering around some new threat.”
He frowns. “A rather small quantity of supplies.”
It’s the mortals who got dragged into this who need food and weapons and armor, and they’re mostly there to be expendable in the first place. Though keeping devils well-outfitted doesn’t hurt. Anyone who’s survived a few battles is useful enough to throw something at.
There’s a twinge in Karlach’s chest at that thought. She chokes on it before speaking. “Sounds worth our time.”
There’s a flash of concern in Wyll’s gaze, in the way he turns toward her. “We’ll evaluate the forge, at least.”
This time he doesn’t say ‘perhaps’, or ‘maybe’ or a selection of other little words that cling on to hope. Odds haven’t been good for that. Better than nothing, better, even, than what they’d had against the Absolute, but luck tends to turn in the end.
Or maybe Karlach is just getting tired of running. She leans in herself, elbows on her knees, and says, “Not in a rush down here. The company’s good.”
“I must say the same.” Wyll shifts a bit closer, horn scraping on the ceiling, and then it’s another one of those little kisses, all gentle and dignified. Proper.
Karlach wraps her hand around the back of Wyll’s skull and holds him in place. Slides her tongue in between his lips. He feels a little cool to the touch compared to everything around them, as solid and calming as the stone. As gracious as a sculpture.
Karlach wouldn’t say she’s ever had much luck with wanting, but that’s never stopped her before. And it’s certainly not going to stop her now.
“It isn't a dance," she says, "but I'm glad to have you here."
The cave feels a bit less comfortable after several hours of laying on it. Karlach has mapped out every spike and lump within about six feet of her, and she suspects Wyll has done the same. At least if anyone comes delving in then horn scrapes on the ceiling won’t identify them.
There’s a set of bruises on Karlach’s back where she banged into a low-hanging section of rock, but it’ll blend in among all the others she’s picked up down here.
“You think we’ll find something?” she says, with about the same aura of someone jamming their tongue into the socket of bloodily-removed tooth.
“Yes.” Wyll finishes rolling up their bedding and turns toward her. He’s no longer hitting anything against the ceiling. “It may not repair your engine, but we discover more with every expedition. It will lead us there eventually.”
“If we don’t get caught.”
A nod. The gesture is remarkably graceful for how little time Wyll has had with his horns, and Karlach has to admit she could watch it for hours. “They have far larger problems than us,” Wyll says.
“Then maybe we should be more of a problem.” Karlach winks and picks up one of the packs, flexing her arm as she does so. Maybe she’s showing off a little, but she thinks she’s earned it. “Later. When there’s less of them moving.”
She catches the way Wyll looks at her, amused and concerned and just a touch tempted. But for all his love of show, the Blade of Frontiers doesn’t usually let that override his sense. “In that case, would you assist me with my horns?”
Karlach nods. You can’t just buy polish in the hells, but there are things one can make out of ash and oil and just a bit of heat. Wyll cares more about such things than she does, but it’s still a good look to smooth out any rough spots and buff the rest of it to near-shining.
Wyll sits there quietly while she works, occasionally turning his head to one side or the other. Leaning into her hands. There’s polish under the nails and worn into the ridges of her fingers by the time Karlach finishes.
But it looks good on him. And by the time she’s cleaned everything up, it’s about time for the both of them to head out.
There are patrols, of course, scouts and groups with supplies and units marching off to one minor instance of the endless conflict. It’s easier to see that, around the edges. To note the bloodstains and the tattered banners over one small ridge that has been taken and retaken for the sort of time that isn’t useful to count.
Except, perhaps, in bodies. Karlach didn’t have much time to think about it before, and she’s not going to spare much more now. Even if they can avoid all the patrols, there are other things lurking down here, fed on the blood of the Hells and despairing souls.
The vines are all black and crimson, and burst out into thorns at the slightest touch. Pods that spit out spikes a body’s length from their base, hooked and hungry.
Good way to bait someone into a trap, if you’re very, very careful.
Or fast.
Karlach is neither, so she just keeps herself behind a rock and watches Wyll work. There’s a shadowy burst from one hand, a flourish of his blade (slightly more battered these days, but still well-polished), and one of the pods spits out right in the midst of a patrol of devils.
They try not to do it to anyone save those and the demons, though anyone who’s been gathered up and shoved down here to fight isn’t likely to trust long enough to ask questions.
Karlach probably wouldn’t have, and she was way too trusting for her own good, once.
Wyll has learned his lesson pretty well.
She charges out with her ax while the survivors are trying to get the spikes out of them, and then it’s just a few large swings and the occasional bolt of magic over her head before Wyll closes in and they clean up the rest between them.
Just another trial of Avernus. Not one that’ll draw notice so long as they keep moving.
Wyll is rifling through pockets while Karlach tosses a few rocks at the remaining pods nearby. Make it look like a bit bigger of a thing than it was, and with the rocks she doesn’t have to hit perfectly the first time.
Then it’s packing the few supplies they’ve scavenged and tucking notes and samples of metal in with them. Another little detail to make this look like just another dead patrol, though maybe something will come of it this time.
“Rest your hand on this,” Wyll says, holding out a bar of metal. It’s a strange color, shifting between blackened silver and a particularly green shade of bronze.
Karlach does so. It’s cool to the touch, even in the heat of Avernus. “What is it?”
“Enchanted. I’m not yet sure about the rest.”
Karlach hefts it a little longer. Lets the flames come back to her fingers, vibrantly warm even with the heat.
The metal remains cool. She goes to hand it back to Wyll, then slips it into her pack instead. It’s heavy, after all. “Might be good for your eye. Nothing in the notes?”
“I fear I’ll not be able to review them until evening.”
Things remain quiet for them until evening. There are strange lights in the sky, hissing and creaking noises on the wind, and it feels eerie even though Karlach remembers how much she grew used to such things, for a time. How quickly she’d lost that.
She’s still not quite sure what to make of it.
But they set up camp downwind of a cliff, in a crack that hasn’t quite opened up wide enough to be comfortable. It’s not large enough for a fire, so they manage with cold cheese and dried bits of what is probably meat. Karlach learned long ago to not look too closely at such things.
There was always something in Avernus that could kill one faster, after all.
She rests her head on a vaguely suitable rock and tries to rest through the sound of rustling parchment. Leather. Skin. Devils aren’t squeamish about their writing surfaces.
Finally she groans, stretches out her stiff limbs, and sits up. “Find anything?”
“The metal seems to originate from some form of interplanar deposit? It contains heat very well; it seems they’re already trying to apply it to weapons and gauntlets.” Wyll looks down at his own blade.
Karlach has to admit that a flaming sword without setting your own hand on fire has a certain appeal, but it’s not just her hand that would get in danger.
“You think it would work?”
There’s a flicker across Wyll’s face, that combination of hope and fear that means he doesn’t want to make any promises. The Blade with his bravado worn down, hopes fragmented.
Never shattered.
He leans in to take her hand, to lay a kiss upon it. “Perhaps. If they’ve this level of material on hand, then they should have what we require.”
Karlach can feel the flame in her chest, the hope, the fear that she pushed it too late with the engine, that it can’t be fixed now. That it will betray her even now in the heat of Avernus, its metal turned brittle by her time elsewhere.
“Let’s find it, then.”
She’s never been one for stealth. Even here, where she’s not the most unusual sight, she’s not been good at fading in. Might have been easier if she had. No engine, then.
Just death, which isn’t a better option.
The camp is fortified by a fence around the front, all spiked vines and twisted branches hiding sharper metal beneath. But there’s a better option. Probably.
A series of well-hidden, grated holes that have been put to removing smoke from the forges. Karlach had wiggled up through them when this was just a little crevice of a supply drop before, and the grate isn’t strong enough to hold her back.
“You’re sure you’ll be well?” Wyll asks, which is a nicer way of worrying than some.
“Just got to squeeze down in there and make sure the fire’s out. Then I grab what we need, squeeze back out, and we’re off. They won’t waste sentries there.”
Wyll turns toward her and nods. It’s a very small gesture, exaggerated by his own horns. “Swiftly, then. It may take some time to extract you.”
Karlach taps him on the shoulder, heavy enough to unbalance him if he hadn’t prepared, and shoves her feet in the hole. “I’m not going to go berserk and smash the whole camp.”
Probably. Can’t blame him too much for worrying.
It’s a tight squeeze alright, but she only gets herself snagged once or twice, and that’s brief enough that she doesn’t have to resort to loud scrambling. She can just about imagine the way Wyll might wince if he hears her, and finally manages to get down with nothing more than a new scrape along her horns.
The room is quiet, dark save for the heat of the banked fire, and as her eyes adjust she can see the stacks of metal: mostly larger chunks of it, though there are a few smaller bars. Infernal iron, and a bit of that strange silvery metal as well.
It’s still cool to the touch, despite the heat. And there’s just a small door leading out, set back into a tunnel.
Karlach gathers up the metal first, a few bars of each, and ties them in so Wyll can pull them up with a rope. She takes a bit of care packing them, but there’s still a clang or two as he draws them up.
She listens at the door at first. No one. Nothing.
Then, just as she’s about to turn away she hears hurried voices and the sound of footsteps.
It takes a few good cracks with her ax to bring the ceiling down and then it’s panicked cries and the sound of falling stone. And then just her and the forge and the hole out.
“Pull me up,” she says, twisting herself into the rope. It’s not going to be pretty.
She catches twice going up. Rope breaks on the second, and there’s a longer scrape over her horn and half her pants are going to be ruined. Bruised up her knee to boot.
When she glances past Wyll she can see the camp all hurried about like angry little ants.
“That enough?” Karlach says, gesturing toward the pile of metal.
“Only if we avoid being caught.” Wyll is already scrambling down the far side of the hill, sliding rather than leaving too obvious of footprints. They don’t need more eyes on them, not unless they can get out of the Hells quickly.
And they’re going to need to rest first.
“Good enough,” she says, and follows him. One more portal and then, finally, she’ll be free. And afterward, she’ll have a few favors to return.
She’s waited long enough.