Strange, I'd never really considered the similarities between Azzagrat and my workplace before, but now that you mention it...
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Book VIII, Part 28
At first glance, the common room of The Fallen Angel looked like just another example of the untold numbers of run-down taverns that sprawled across the many places wherever sentient beings gathered to eat, drink, talk, fight, and play. The floor of chalky gray rock, occasionally half-heartedly covered by a threadbare rug, wore the marks of endless progressions of feet, tens of thousands of spilled drinks, and even the occasional bloodstain left half-scrubbed. Dozens of flickering flames in old, tarnished brass lamps dangling from the ceiling on short chains glowed in the polished wood paneling that covered the walls. The ceiling sagged a bit under the weight of the two stories above, and the many thick wooden beams that supported it carved the copious open chamber into little side areas where individual stories were wrought out in ale and argument and occasionally, violence.
Just another run-down tavern in some nameless city that had seen better days... Except for the patrons, which identified this place as something quite different indeed.
The broad front door to the Angel opened reluctantly, admitting another knot of patrons. Beyond, had anyone inside cared to look, they would have seen the blue glow of another hot day in Zelatar. The four newcomers entered quickly and shut the door behind them, pausing briefly to scan the smoky chamber.
They were a mixed group of fiends, an unusual variety, perhaps, but not unduly so. Their leader, by the way that the others clustered around her protectively, was a tall, statuesque fiendess, perhaps an alu-demon, attractive by any standard even with the small horns that jutted out from among her black locks. She bore a heavy spear that crackled with magic. Looming beside her like a shadow was a muscular guardian clad in mail links that caught the light of the lamps and gleamed brightly. He was clearly of mixed heritage, demon blood mixed with some otherplanar source, his skin a fiery red, his skull bare and marked with a dozen or more old scars. He carried a pair of longswords, one at his hip and one across his back, with an ease of familiarity, and a longbow strung and ready to draw.
The other two were smaller creatures, clearly hangers-on. Before the pair was a small demon that barely came to the waist of the tall tiefling. Dressed in robes worn with travel, this figure wore a face that was all hard angles and sharp edges, as if molded by some insane sculptor. The little fiend’s eyes were sharp, however, and they scanned the room warily, while his hands, hidden within the folds of the robe, no doubt were clutched around some kind of surprise for anyone who would seek to trouble his masters.
The final newcomer remained in the rear. He was a short but thick figure, clad entirely in heavy plate that seemed almost grafted onto his form. Enough of the light penetrated his full helm to reveal skin the color of coal, and eyes that were twin points of flame. When he moved, the ground felt it, and even without the wicked axe that rode at his side, he looked dangerous.
The four moved into the crowded room, drawing their share of attention. Though the residents of Zelatar were masters of minding their own business, only a fool ignored what went on around him, in this place. Most of the customers were demons or part-demons of an incredible diversity of appearance, although at one table a pair of elves—a winged fey’ri and a drow priestess—were engaged in deep conversation, and at another a derro savant sat poring over an ancient scroll, apparently oblivious to the goings-on, although his three bodyguards missed nothing. An attractive vampiress shot the tiefling a suggestive look as they passed, then chuckled at the hard look that the lady fiend returned.
The four reached the back of the place, where the long bar was being worked by a full dozen tieflings. Their master was a fat human named Ugo Bross, owner of the Angel, a planewalker who was well known to be far more dangerous than he looked. He gave the four newcomers an appraising look as the short robed one toddled over to his perch at the end of the bar.
“What can I do for you?” he said, not unfriendly but not promising anything, either.
“We’re looking for Kargan Tsorok,” the short demon said.
The tavernkeeper jerked a thumb to his right, where an even denser cloud of smoke shrouded the exit to a small side room. Cloth hangings had once offered some privacy from the common room, but they had been allowed to degenerate until now only thin wisps hung down across the entry, like dangling vines hanging over the entrance of some ancient forgotten tomb.
The four fiends headed into the smaller room. Behind them, the sounds of the common room fell off noticeably as the walls closed in around them. Around the perimeter were a number of semi-private booths, most of which contained small groups of beings, some drinking from tall mugs, others smoking off of communal pipes that continuously emitted thin streamers of smoke into the room. The air here was thick and cloying, full of a thousand smells and promises of temporary distraction from the everyday realities of life in the Abyss.
“My head’s starting to swim already,” Benzan said, quietly so that his voice wouldn’t carry beyond his companions.
“Shh,” Dana returned, as the smoke cleared ahead to reveal a final wide booth at the rear of the room.
The booth was occupied by a short figure about Lok’s size, except that where the genasi was all muscle, this individual was layer upon layer of thick fat and greasy hair. His demonic heritage was obvious in the twin ridges of bone that ran down his bald skull from above his eyebrows to the back of his neck. He wore an expansive kimono of what might have been silk, open so that it revealed his fat chest and fat belly. Several chains of gold, silver, and other unidentifiable metals hung from his neck and tangled in the thick hair that covered his chest like a pelt of fur. A pair of lithe females, also clearly at least part-demon, hung off of him to either side, each clad in just enough to make what they offered suggestive rather than blatantly obvious. A houka, ignored for the moment, sat on the small table before them, along with a half-consumed platter of food that could have been anything.
The fat man looked up as the companions materialized out of the smoky atmosphere of the antechamber. “Yes?” he said, his voice containing an undertone of mirth.
“Kargan Tsorok?” Cal asked.
“Indeed, none other,” he replied, with a wave of his hand. “What can I do for you?” His words were directed at the group of them, but his eyes remained fixed on Dana, and his mouth twisted in such a way that made Benzan’s jaw tighten. The demon noticed this, of course, and his amusement deepened.
“We have a business proposal for you, that we’d like to discuss in private, if you don’t mind.”
Kargan’s eyes glittered, and he stirred like a mountain shaking under an earthquake. This dislodged the two females, who pouted until Kargan passed each a thick coin of fever-iron and sent them on their way with a noisy slap to the rear. Once they had departed, he laughed and gestured for them to sit.
“Ah, females! Hardly worth the effort it seems, sometimes. Other times they are what drives us to the efforts we go to, don’t they! You know what I mean, I think,” he added, with a wink toward Benzan.
“Ser Tsorok,” Cal began.
“Call me Kargan. It is better than the other name they have for me, the Wordwyrm. Not that this is such a bad thing to be known as, either... words are very important here, you see. Or you have learned that yourselves by now, neh?”
His look suddenly became very penetrating, and the companions shared a quick glance. “What do you—” Cal said.
“Oh, don’t worry, your disguises are good enough for most... a seeming?” Without waiting for confirmation, he went on, “But you don’t smell of this place, though given long enough, anyone takes on that odor, regardless of where they are from. Though I do not know why you bother; plenty of Primes here—our good tavernkeeper, for one. Nobody cares who you are or why you are here, unless you’re weak enough or strong enough for it to make a difference.”
“And which are you, Kargan?” Benzan asked.
“I am right in the middle,” the demon replied without hesitation. “The safest place to be. Neh, though most of the wretched things of this realm dream only of endless power, they are fools. Power, at least in the quantities they crave, only draws the attention of others to you, others who want that same power for themselves.”
“We are not looking for power,” Cal said.
The demon turned to regard him with a penetrating look. “No? And yet I can taste the promise of it about you, about all of you.”
He leaned back, his flabby torso jiggling even with that abbreviated movement. “A few days ago, in the Square of Judgment, in that part of the city that resides on the Forty-Sixth layer, a vrock seized a little being from his friends, a being from Outside smelling of the hint of power I mentioned. No doubt the demon thought it could get away with its prize before the friends could react. From what I heard, the result was quite dramatic.”
“You seem remarkably well-informed about events in the city,” Cal noted.
“One vrock the fewer is of no great concern. But when powerful outsiders come to the city, many take note. And the longer such beings stay, the more dangerous their situation becomes.”
“We want nothing more to complete our business and be on our way,” Cal replied.
“And so we come again to why you are here. You have found me, which says that you are resourceful as well as powerful.”
“It wasn’t that difficult; your reputation has traveled farther than you expect, perhaps.”
“Perhaps, or perhaps it was only fortune that led you to hear of me, and not another who specializes in... in problem solving.”
The moment drew out for a few heartbeats, the two sides sizing each other up. Finally, Cal said, “We need information.”
“A commodity frequently traded here, to be sure.”
“More specifically, we need a divination. Or at least, the ability to conduct a divination, without the... side effects... one encounters in this place. We can cast the spell ourselves, if we can avoid the attendant consequences.”
“Ah,” Kargan said, lifting a fat finger to his chin. “So you require an answer, to a question that is powerful enough to drive you all the way from the safety and security of your world, to a place such as this.” With a wave of his hand, he managed to encapsulate it all—the smoky room, the inn, the city, the plane, and the entire Abyss. He let that hang for a moment, then said, “I may be able to direct you to one for whom it would be possible—possible, mind you, for I cannot make any guarantees on such a matter—to do as you wish. His nature is unique, in that he is both of this place and apart from it, and he has certain... talents... that are not bound by those regulations that govern ‘common’ magic. Now, since this will be the first question he will ask, I must query... what is the objective of this seeking that you require?”
The companions shared a long look, and Kargan just sat there, his hands crossed over his ample belly, apparently unperturbed by the delay. Finally, however, a resolution seemed to be met in that silent exchange, and Cal turned back to the demon.
“We are seeking a soul.”
