02/11/2026: The Arrival in Stygia

With the arrival in Stygia, the coach crashes into the frozen ground with bone-jarring force. Metal warps and splinters fly. The vehicle careens sideways, gouging a trench through the snow before lurching to a violent stop. The doors burst open, hurling passengers and luggage into the howling arctic waste.

The travelers sprawl across the ice, gasping as their breath crystallizes in plumes of white vapor. Belongings lie scattered—packs, weapons, personal effects half-buried in snow. Through the blinding white of the blizzard, dark silhouettes emerge, moving with purposeful deliberation toward the crash site.

Groaning, the passengers struggle to their feet. The ebony team of horses has vanished—not fled, but simply gone, as if they never existed. Behind them, their driver Cornelius Mallard steps down from the coach box, his boots crunching in the snow. Before he reaches the ground, the entire vehicle begins to dissolve, its substance unraveling into gray fog that the arctic wind blows away. 

Soon, no trace of the coach remains.

The group huddles together, shivering in clothes too thin for the frozen heart of the Nine Hells. A few yards away, Cornelius speaks with a figure that makes them shiver even harder.

She stands seven feet tall, her skin deep blue. She is wrapped in leather armor and a heavy fur cloak. Horns curve back from her temples—a tiefling, but not like any they’ve seen before. This one belongs to Hell itself. Flanking her are two insectoid creatures, bodies clicking and mandibles chittering. All three are heavily armed.

Their eyes are fixed on the shivering mortals as Cornelius reaches into his satchel. He withdraws a bundle of parchments—the same ones the passengers signed mere hours ago, promises made in warm firelight that now feel like the distant past.

The tiefling accepts the contracts with a clawed hand, inspecting them briefly before tucking the bundle into her furs. Then she strides toward the group, each footfall crunching with with purpose.

She regards them with glittering eyes. “Ah, punctual. How refreshing. So many souls arrive screaming or begging or—worst of all—confused.” She pauses, letting the word hang in the frigid air. “Let me save us all considerable time and eliminate that last option for you.”

With a sharp gesture, she unfurls a scroll. Ice crackles along its length as it opens, frost dropping from the ancient parchment.

“I am Sergeant Blade of the Stygian Intake Squadron,” she reads. “We receive these nine souls, delivered as per Contract Tertiary, Subsection Twelve-T, filed under the auspices of one Cornelius Mallard in exchange for retrieval and restoration services rendered. Standard transit waiver, signed by…” She makes a theatrical show of reading each name aloud, savoring them like a gourmand sampling fine wine.

“Um,” Cornelius ventures, his voice small and desperate, “we lost the ninth soul. He went out the window earlier.”

Sergeant Blade continues as if he hadn’t spoken, her voice never wavering: “Witnessed, sealed, and now collected upon arrival as stipulated in the document’s rather comprehensive second page.”

A clamor erupts—passengers shouting denials and explanations, Cornelius sputtering protests—but Sergeant Blade raises one long-fingered hand. Silence descends. She regards the panicking group with an expression of performative sympathy, the kind a scholar might give a particularly dim student.

“You did read the second page, didn’t you?” Her pause is exquisite torture. “No? A pity. That’s where it explains that all passengers surrender claim to their immortal essence upon entry to the Nine Hells. Terribly important clause, that. Cornelius was quite clever to hide it as ‘Lamilin’ rather than ‘Tantilin’ in the transit authorization—we provided the template, naturally.”

One of the ice devils emits a clicking sound that might be laughter.

“And Cornelius,” Sergeant Blade continues, turning her attention to the driver, “it doesn’t matter that you’ve lost one of your charges. Where? In Minauros? Avernus?” She waves dismissively. “You promised Lord Levistus nine souls in exchange for your worthless son. Lord Levistus will take your soul along with the souls of these careless travelers.” Her smile could freeze blood. “You should have read the third page.”

Cornelius Mallard utters a shriek that tears from his throat like something dying. He drops to his knees in the snow, weeping.

“Now then.” Sergeant Blade’s voice returns to businesslike efficiency. “Your souls are the lawful property of Chamberlain Verekaix until such time as contractual obligations are satisfied. We will begin the collection of soul coins. Step forward when I read your name.”

She slips reading glasses onto her nose and consults her scroll.

“Come forward, the one called Newt!”

Gulping audibly, Newt moves forward on trembling legs. 

Sergeant Blade smiles gently—almost kindly—then plunges her fist deep into the fighter’s chest.

Newt looks down, expecting blood and gore, but instead witnesses the blue arm sink through flesh and bone as if passing through water. When Sergeant Blade withdraws her hand, she holds what appears to be a large golden coin that gleams with inner light, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

“The good,” she observes, admiring the coin as she turns it over, “have such lovely essence.” She drops it into a large bag at her hip with a musical clink.

“The one called Lynx, step forward!”

The dragonborn shuffles forward, white scales rasping together with anxiety. Again the blue arm plunges through his scaly flesh, emerging this time with a diamond-shaped coin that catches the dim light. “Ah, the followers of Silvana, like yourself, also have lovely soul coins. Not as large nor as shiny as the followers of Helm, but beautiful nonetheless.” The coin joins its companion in the bag.

“Nesquo! Freda! Cornelius! Krasnyy! Come here!”

The four approach, and Sergeant Blade efficiently extracts coins from Freda and Cornelius—small, round, shiny copper discs. When she calls for Nesquo, the woman points quickly at Krasnyy and claims, “That’s Nesquo!”

Sergeant Blade hesitates for only a moment before plunging her fist into Krasnyy’s chest, withdrawing a coin identical to the others—like a bright penny.

Then she turns to Nesquo. The devil’s hand shoots out, gripping the woman’s shoulder like a vice as her fist drives home. Sergeant Blade hisses, her face inches from Nesquo’s: “You lie about being Krasnyy!” She withdraws a soul coin and holds it before the woman’s eyes. “It is smaller. Duller. You know why.” All four coins drop into her bag with sounds like coins falling into a well. She turns her back on Nesquo in dismissal.

“Those called Tall Glumbo and the Toe Tickler, come forward!”

The two shuffle toward the devil with visible reluctance. 

She pulls coins from each that begin as small, dull silver discs but suddenly liquify in her palm, mercury-bright substance flowing between her fingers.

“Dratted quicksilver! Bigriglow, get me phials!”

One of the ice devils produces two glass vials. Sergeant Blade carefully decants the liquid soul essence into each bottle, corking them tightly before dropping them into the bag with a careful clink.

“Finally,” the tiefling snarls, her patience clearly wearing thin, “the one called Murlack, present yourself!”

The elvish warlock steps forward, meeting the sergeant’s eyes. Blade smiles—seeming to be genuinely amused—and withdraws her fist. Murlack peers down at what appears to be a large, shriveled raisin resting in the devil’s blue palm.

“Almost like you were born to be here, my dear,” Sergeant Blade purrs.

As this last soul coin disappears into the bag, each traveler feels a strange, hollow emptiness blooming in their chest. It is the sensation of loss, a void where something once resided. The cold suddenly feels deeper, more keen.

“You may reclaim your property once the promised task is accomplished,” Sergeant Blade announces, cinching her bag closed, “along with a voucher for transport back to the Material Plane, or any preferred parallel dimension we serve."

She gestures toward the horizon, where nothing but a white wasteland stretches endlessly. “You will find your quarters in the City of Ice, Tantlin, half a day’s walk in that direction. There you will receive your assignment. Complete it successfully and the soul coins are returned to you. Fail, and…” Her smile shows too many teeth. “Well, let’s just say we may see lots of one another.”

“And I do hope you’ll be more careful readers in the future. The Lord of Stygia appreciates those who pay attention to detail.” She pauses, savoring the moment. “Welcome to Stygia. Do try not to freeze.”

She snaps her fingers. The sound cracks through the air like breaking ice. Sergeant Blade and her devil companions sink into the frozen ground. The sound that accompanies their departure is unmistakably a funeral bell, deep and sonorous, echoing long after they vanish.

⚔

The group huddles together, shivering violently as the reality of their situation settles over them as the snow begins falling heavier than ever. They begin trudging through knee-deep drifts in the direction that they hope is Tantlin.

Cornelius walks with them, and despite everything—despite the cold gnawing their bones and the emptiness in their chests—he attempts to justify his actions. Words tumble from his frost-cracked lips about desperation to retrieve his son and his regret about impossible choices.

“You brought us to Hell,” Glumbo grumbles. “Some of us are still a little upset about that!”

As they slog onward, legs burning with effort, a small figure suddenly rise from the snowdrifts ahead. Barely taller than a hand’s length, it shakes powder from its crystalline form and regards the Newt, the nearest, with unreadable expression.

“Hey! What are you?” Newt, clearly charmed, has stopped and bent low, extending a frost-nipped finger toward it. A creature no taller than their knee stands there, its body seemingly carved from living ice—translucent, crystalline, with faceted edges that catch what little light filters through the storm. Tiny horns curve from its head, and its eyes glow with cold blue fire.

The creature tilts its head, regarding the extended finger with what might be curiosity. It takes one tentative step forward, tiny clawed feet crunching delicately on the snow’s crust.

“Awww…” Newt marvels, voice filled with wonder despite the hellish circumstances, “it’s so cute!”

“That’s an ice mephit,” Nesquo cautions sharply, taking a step back. “They can be—”

The mephit strikes like a snake.

Its sickle-shaped claw slashes across Newt’s outstretched finger, drawing a thin line of blood that freezes almost instantly. 

“Owww!” Newt jerks back, feelings more hurt than flesht. The fighter’s reflexes are sharp—their hand darts out and snatches the creature before it can retreat, pinning its twig-thin arms against its crystalline body.

The mephit struggles momentarily then opens its mouth and releases a shriek that splits the air like breaking glass.

The snow erupts.

Four more ice mephits burst through the frozen crust in explosions of powder and ice shards, their shrill cries joining the first in a chorus of icy fury. They swarm forward, tiny bodies moving in jerky, insect-like motions as they close on the group.

One launches itself at Lynx’s leg, claws extended. Another goes for Freda’s ankles. The remaining two split, flanking Glumbo and Krasnyy.

“Defend yourselves!” someone shouts—perhaps Cornelius, perhaps one of the others—but the words are nearly lost beneath the mephits’ screaming and the wind’s howl.

Glumbo stomps at the creature skittering toward him, his boot coming down with the force of a hammer. The first attempt misses—the mephit darts aside, its eyes glaring at him. But Glumbo recalibrates and his second strike pins the creature against the packed snow with a satisfying crunch.

Before it can wriggle free, Glumbo scoops it up. His massive hand engulfs the mephit’s entire body except for its head and kicking feet. Ice-cold radiates from the creature, numbing his palm, but Glumbo’s grip remains firm.

The mephit glares up at him with evil intensity, its tiny face twisted in rage. 

Around them, the battle continues. The captured mephits struggle and shriek. The free ones dart and slash, their movements almost playful despite the violence. Blood spatters the snow—small flecks bright against the white.

And still, the distant settlement appears and disappears through the storm, if only they can reach it.

If they can escape these dratted mephits.

If the cold doesn’t claim them first.

If Stygia doesn’t swallow them whole.