The coach lurches forward and the journey begins.
Soon after, the purple tiefling leans to one side against the window and closes his eyes. Within moments, soft snores escape his lips as his hands grip the carpet bag balanced protectively on his lap.
Lynx settles himself into the window seat just ahead of the sleeping tiefling, then twists completely around and shakes the man’s bag with enthusiasm. “Hi, I’m Lynx!” He stares directly into the tiefling’s face, unblinking.
The tiefling jolts awake, yanking the bag toward himself. “Um, Varayathor,” he mumbles, clearly uncomfortable and possibly a bit annoyed. “Charmed.”
“Tall Glumbo,” adds the other tiefling cheerfully, leaning forward from the back row to capture Varayathor’s attention. As the two begin chatting, the temperature within the coach begins to climb. First warm, then stifling.
The passengers shift uncomfortably in the cramped space, droplets of sweat beading on foreheads and dampening collars. Someone fans themselves with a hand. The air feels thick, almost syrupy.
Lynx slides the window open beside him. Hot, arid air rushes in, carrying with it an acrid whiff of brimstone that stings the nostrils and burns at the back of the throat.
With a tremendous thump, Krasnyy throws herself over the seat back, landing squarely in Lynx’s lap. She peers out the open window—and her stomach drops. The team of horses has flown clear off the road. But the creatures don’t fall. Instead, they pull the coach higher into the air, hooves churning against nothing, the coach swaying beneath them like a pendulum.
The vehicle now follows a dark ribbon of road far below. Krasnyy’s breath catches as she spots a long procession of weeping figures chained together, shuffling in silence toward the banks of a wide, sluggish river. The water is black and utterly still. There, a boatman shrouded in a tattered cloak collects a coin from each soul before they climb into his vessel. As the last passenger finds a seat in the long boat, the cloaked figure begins to pole across the vast expanse of dark water, swallowed almost immediately by the gloom.
Krasnyy pulls her head back inside, face pale. “You need to see this,” she says, voice tight. She quickly reports what she’s witnessed.
It is at this moment that the passengers—excepting Varayathor—begin to realize that Lamilin City is not their actual destination.
Panic erupts inside the coach. Voices rise in alarm, hands clutch at armrests, eyes dart wildly seeking escape. The coach sways and creaks under the weight of shifting bodies.
Varayathor sighs, almost bored. “You mortals always become so anxious at your first sight of the Nine Hells. Relax. You’ll arrive soon enough.” He adjusts his carpet bag and settles back, utterly at ease. “Myself, I get off here—in Avernus.”
“Hell?” gasps Freda, also climbing atop Lynx. She elbows Krasnyy out of the way and stares out at a terrifying scene.
“I’d close the window, if I were you,” Varayathor tells them, almost bored. He has stood up and is adjusting the straps on his bag.
Before the smoke and heat drive Freda back in, she beholds the devils of the Nine Hells locked in pitched battle against the demons invading from the Deepest Abyss. The sky is on fire. Around the battling fiends, artillery booms. Flaming ordinance screams upward in great arcing columns, trailing smoke and sparks. The coach rocks violently, lurching sideways to dodge a missile that passes close enough to feel the heat of it.
As Varayathor moves to lower his window, Murlack seizes his cuff. “You shouldn’t go,” he threatens ominously. The tiefling shakes his head and says, “Don’t worry about me, friend. Good bye. And good luck. And stay in the coach until you arrive at your destination.”
Varayathor pulls his hand free and continues his preparations, making ready to depart through the window, unhurried. As he turns, Murlack’s hand darts out—a quick, practiced motion. But Varayathor’s heavy violet hand closes around the rogue’s finer elvish one before it gets close to his purse.
The tiefling grins down at him and chuckles. “Not today, friend. Remember what I’ve said—stay in the coach until you arrive.”
Infuriated at the tiefling, Murlack conjures a bonfire, hurling it to land atop Varayathor.
But Varayathor is too quick. The tiefling leaps from the coach just as it dips toward the parched, scorched ground below—and disappears into the haze.
The bonfire tumbles down onto the cushioned seat, right next to Murlack. The fabric begins to smolder, a thin curl of acrid smoke rising into the already stifling air.
And then the coach tips forward, plunging into a dark opening—a crack splitting the ground ahead. Many of the passengers are thrown forward, sprawling against one another in a tangle of limbs and luggage.
