The Tongue of Devils

Witchlight Carnival, Tepest 

The flickering light of phosphorescent lanterns sway with the rickety rhythm of the Carnival as the late afternoon breeze swirls between wagons and tents alike. Shadow and color twist unnaturally as faerie fire blends with moonlight and starry skies. Music, both happy and melancholy, churns around the many guests. On the third night after their arrival in Tepest, Tobias sees Raven beneath the canvas canopy of what was once Professor Pacali’s tent, now home to a rotation of attractions inhabiting the space. Raven, on occasion, as part of his contribution to the carnival, would put on demonstrations of magic, minor illusions using his power to create colorful birds. They flash into being before disappearing or turning into a ‘terrifying’ devil to wow and shock the crowd. Tonight’s performance is over and as the last patron exits, the paladin finds him sitting in silence, with Bex coiled lazily around a flickering skull-shaped brazier, his head down, preoccupied. Whether with intrusive thoughts and worry for Hildy or the mental toll of his re-scarification is hard to say.

Tobias enters, quietly approaching. 

“Raven… May I sit?”

Raven gestures toward a cushion without looking up.

“Of course, Tobias. What troubles you? Your tone worries me.”

Tobias forces a grin followed with a dry chuckle, seating himself.

 “That obvious, am I?”

Bex lifts her crimson, batlike wings while flicking her barbed tail.

“Only to everyone who’s not blind, holy boy. You’re brooding again. How quaint.”

Tobias nods.

“I guess I am… I don’t mean to sound… It’s just…”

“Spit it out Toby.” Bex snapped impatiently. “The suspense is boring me.”

“I’m trying. “ He replied without snarking back at the imp. “I guess.. I shouldn’t be upset but…I lost something… when Naomi was torn from me. And not just her power. I lost a connection—to her world, your world. To the things I might need to understand to stop her if….”

“When.” Bex corrected immediately.

He nodded in agreement. “When she returns.” His eyes look to Raven, earnestly.  “I want to learn Infernal again. From you…” Then to Zybeksiya. ”Both of you.”

Raven finally turns to meet Tobias’s eyes, his own glowing faintly emerald in the dim light. He masks his discomfort well. What has become increasingly obvious to his companion is the warlock’s kinship to suffering.

 “You remember what you told me, about the dreams, the visions of hell, the whispers of burning wings.”

Raven reaches out, touching his chest lightly.

“That is what Infernal is. It’s not just language—it’s intention, dominance, and elegance laced in pain. Are you certain you want to bring that back into yourself, revisit those feelings?”

Tobias wears a look of sincerity.

“I’m not asking to wield her power again. Just to understand. If…” He looks at Bex and before she can retort, ”When she comes back… I want to be ready.”

Bex stretches, then leaps into the air before landing on Raven’s shoulder, her voice syruped with dry amusement.

“Sweet. Naïve. But I like this one. Still smells like guilt and shame. Very Nine Hells.” She eyes Tobias with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. Then her smirk widens into a mischievous grin. “I’ll help. But don’t cry when you accidentally say ‘bind me, mistress’ instead of ‘pass the salt’ in front of your friends.”

Week One: The Basics of Blasphemy

The Carnival is quiet as the early morning shadow of a rising sun lingers across the forest clearing. Posts set in the soft earth are hung with lanterns and illusionary fireflies offer a subdued yet somewhat enchanting illumination. Raven sits with Tobias by a stream just outside camp where just moments ago he had cleaned fresh wounds leaving black blood streaking in the ripples of the mild current.

 “Repeat after me. ‘Zaar venith koresh Glasya mal’ne.’” Raven says.

 “Zaar venith koresh… Glasya mal…ne?” Tobias struggles with his pronunciation. “What does it mean?”

Raven smirks. “’Speak her name in reverence, or die with your tongue shriveled.’ It’s a common greeting in court.”

Tobias wears a disconcerted expression on his face. “That was a greeting?”

Bex, sitting nearby in her curled imp form, clicking her claws with disinterest adds, “You should hear how we say ‘please.'”

Week Two: Of Fire and Feelings

It was just after supper, Raven and Tobias sat cross-legged in the communal tent their group shared. The others were out and about. Dunkle working to forge a breastplate, Rainer patrolling the ever expanding Litwick Market and Morag probably searching for ingredients to concoct another vile recipe. Even in Malboge the orc’s culinary offerings would be seen as suspect, perhaps even a form of torture for one of Glasya’s hapless victims. Strange shadows flickered around them seemingly from no particular source.

Tobias was feeling slightly frustrated with his progression.  “You used to talk to me in Infernal. It came so naturally then.”

“That’s because she was speaking for you, translating, channeling or perhaps some other fel possession.”

“It felt like a secret only we shared.” Tobias confessed.

Raven groaned softly as he shifted. “Because it was. I never spoke of your agreement with the others..”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t my story to tell….but more than that…” The warlock paused. Grimacing, as linen pulled free from a drying scab.. “We’re not alike in many ways, Tobias… but that pain—of being used by something greater, of not knowing if it’s your thoughts or theirs anymore… That binds us more than language ever could. It’s a silent understanding that we know each other.”

Bex was relaxing, curled on a shelf, watching them. “Familiarity, kinship…And trust me, darling. If you survive learning the Infernal subjunctive case, you really get to know someone.”

A week later…

The Witchlight Carnival Grounds – Varithne, Darkon

The Carnival had reappeared on the outskirts of Varithne, a small settlement between Neblus and Viaki, clinging to the ashen hills of Darkon like a secret no one wanted to tell. Modest farmhouses loomed like bones jutting from the earth, and the gnarled trees seemed to recoil from the festively colored tents.

Despite the mists and superstition, the Carnival called to the weary and the curious. Its lights flickered unnaturally, music wound around the breeze like a whisper half-remembered, and the smell of honeyed chestnuts and spiced cider masked the deeper scent of damp stone and faded hope.

Beneath a fading silver moon, Raven, Bex, and Tobias sit atop a wagon’s roof surveying the strange new land. Raven was shirtless allowing the typically uncomfortable, at least for him, cool evening air breath relief to recently branded sigils.

Tobias begins reciting slowly. “Naomi ethar grath vex’alor…” (He pauses.) “‘Naomi will seek her fire again…’ Right?”

Raven nods. “Very good. And?”

Tobias hesitates, then continues speaking in infernal. “…But I will meet her with the steel of my will.”

Bex had been quiet with only an occasional jab aimed at Tobias, her face bemused as usual. Now however, her expression was more serious, concerned even.

“If she finds you, boy… she’ll try to charm you again. Just like she did last time, she’ll prey on your doubt. Try to make you forget what it is you stand for, challenge your beliefs.”

Tobias had a look of sincerity about him. “Then I’m glad I have you two to remind me who I am.”

Raven places a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. “And in Infernal, you’ll remind her: you’re no longer hers.”

“You’ve an awful lot of faith in a hellborn warlock and an imp.” She scoffed.

“I disagree. I have faith in my friends.”

Bex rolled her eyes and turned away hiding the faintest of smiles.

Later That Night…

Tobias is laying in his cot half-asleep, half dreaming, murmuring. He wakes with a start.

“Xar’aven sereth val…” What’s that mean again?

Raven was nearby sitting near a brazier for warmth. He wasn’t much for cold and the chill autumn evening brought him little in the way of comfort after his brands had cooled.

“The raven walks the blade’s edge. It was an old saying in Oessia. About me. About navigating life in Glasya’s court, About surviving when others fell.”

Tobias considered his friend’s words for a moment before replying.

“Fitting.”

Raven smiled in gratitude. “For both of us.”

Days later the companions found themselves visiting one of the more peculiar attractions. The Hall of Whispers, was a long, domed tent lined with hanging velvet drapes and enchanted mirrors. Inside, voices echoed endlessly—some yours, some not—speaking truths, lies, or things you had yet to say.

Raven and Tobias had volunteered to staff the attraction that night. Tobias wore a sweeping half-cloak of dark velvet trimmed in gold thread, his sun-shaped holy symbol discreet beneath the collar. Raven, ever regal, wore a coat of infernal silk—black as shadow, iridescent in the lanternlight—with a blood-red sash cinched at his waist. He was dressed less for impression, more so for the gentle caress the fabric offered his razor cut flesh.

Floating lazily above them, invisible to mortals, Bex lounged midair in her impish form, her clawed toes hooked into a ribboned trapeze.

Raven was adjusting a velvet curtain. “Interesting.” His voice, as he began to speak, was low and smooth. “According to this inscription, this mirror speaks only what the listener fears most. A fitting place to practice a language built on fear.”

Tobias cleared his throat, attempting to stay professional as the evening’s guests entered.  “What phrase did you say earlier? The one about the blade?”

Raven enunciated softly, “Xar’aven sereth val. Repeat it. Breathe from the chest—not the throat.”

Tobias took a breath, concentrating,  “Xar’aven… sereth… val.“

Bex’s voice descended from above them, “Better. Say it like you’re seducing a sin, not reading a sermon.”  she coaxed, swaying upside down from her tail.

Tobias scowled but tried again, putting subtle force into the syllables. The mirror nearest him fogged slightly, as if reacting to the cadence. When it cleared there was Tobias, Champion of  Gargauth with Naomi, proudly, affectionately, on his arm. A quick gasp escaped from his throat as the image faded to oblivion.

“You ok?” Raven asked.

“Did you see that?”

“See what?” Raven asked, confused.

“Nevermind…”

A small cluster of locals wandered into the tent. Leading them was an elderly woman in a rust-colored shawl, her eyes sharp despite the cataracts. Two children followed—wide-eyed and gripping each other’s hands. Behind them stood a disheveled man in tattered priest robes with a lopsided silver medallion etched with the symbol of Ezra.

“You the devil-tongued one, eh?” The old woman directed toward Raven. “Locals say you speak fallen tongues. Might you show us a word or two for protection?”

Raven bends low with a courtly bow. “I teach remembrance, not rebellion. But a word, perhaps—yes.” He smiles faintly and gestures to the misted mirror behind her.
“Speak this as you light a candle: Velax’ti shan deru. It means: ‘Let flame forget shadow.’“

The children repeat it in uncertain unison. For a moment, the mirror shows only soft candlelight. then the light expands. It glows brighter chasing away darkness and revealing an image of the family some time in the future, safe and content. The old woman nods once, satisfied, and drops a silver crescent coin into the donation box.

“Was that your doing?” Tobias asked.

“Not me.” Raven answered. “The mirrors here supposedly speak truths, lies fantasy, whose to say what called forth that image of if it shall ever come to pass.”

“For good or ill.” Tobias added.

For good or ill..” Raven agreed.

As the crowd dispersed, Raven turned to Tobias again. He rolled back his sleeve, gesturing toward thin scars cut into his forearm embroidered with runes Bex had written a few short weeks ago. Raven points to the markings. “Try this one. Theran’desh il morai.“

Tobias reads. “Theran’d… il… morai. What does it mean?”

Raven seemed distracted for a second, his gaze distant. When he spoke his voice was hushed. “‘The fire remembers the hands that shaped it.’ It’s the first lesson Glasya taught me when I was presented to court. Pain leaves prints. Even when you no longer feel it.”

Tobias thought quietly about what Raven had just said. “I think I understand now why the language feels alive. It isn’t just words. It’s… chains.”

Bex fluttered over to where the two were talking, finding a perch on Tobias’ shoulder for effect. “Chains that sing lullabies and trick you asleep. Chains that bite when you speak them wrong.You’re improving but always remember words hold power.”

Several nights later…

After their shift ends, the trio slips behind the attraction for fresh air beneath the color-warped stars. In the distance, Sahani twirls glowing runes while Oz serenades the carnival folk near the fire. Morag’s laughter echoes as he roars over something Vimak said.

Tobias leans against a tent post, practicing syllables under his breath.

Tobias is tentative, careful. “Doruul… nax… shiven. ‘To see the devil’s path,’ right?”

Raven smirks, correcting him gently. “Doruul nax’shiven. One breath. Otherwise, you’re saying ‘to sew the devil’s mouth shut.’ Which… would be bold.”

Tobias laughs. “Maybe that’s what I meant to say.”

Bex flits down beside them, for once not teasing. “You’ve come far, paladin. That tongue doesn’t curl so poorly now.”

Tobias “I owe it to you. Both of you. You could’ve said no.”

Raven bows slightly, politely. “I would not deny a man the weapon he needs to face the ghosts that once wore his skin.”

“Let’s hope it’s enough.” Bex offers.

A brief silence passes. Warmth, rare and unspoken, hums in the chill.