11/10/2025: The Pain Devil and the Affliction Devil

Furiously fast, the companions tumble down the slick dark tunnel, their bodies helpless against the relentless pull of gravity and ice. Weapons clatter free from sheaths, armor pieces bounce and spin away, supplies scatter like leaves in a storm. Kiki’s head cracks against Reklaw’s knee. Arman’s elbow finds Thunk’s ribs. Vali’s pack bursts open, sending rations spiraling into the darkness. Round and round they whirl, deeper into the frozen bowels of Stygia, the Fifth Hell, where even gravity feels malicious.

After what seems like an eternity of bruising chaos, the group lands in an unceremonious heap in a chamber filled with eerie, sourceless light. The glow seems to emanate from the ice itself—a sickly blue-green phosphorescence that makes their breath visible in dancing clouds. Overhead, the darkness presses down absolute and suffocating, as if the ceiling might be miles high or mere inches above their heads.

Groans rise from the tangle of limbs and equipment. Reklaw extracts his leg from beneath Thunk’s massive bulk. Kiki discovers her dagger somehow ended up in Arman’s boot. Vali’s horns are tangled in someone’s cloak—whose cloak, nobody is quite sure. One by one, the companions painfully take stock of their injuries. Bruises, certainly. Dignity, severely wounded. But nothing broken, nothing bleeding. They gather their scattered weapons and supplies with the weary efficiency of adventurers who have learned that Hell never gives you time to properly reorganize.

As they move deeper into the cavern, their footsteps crunching on frost-slicked stone, they become aware of distant voices. The sound echoes strangely in the vast space, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. A dim light issues from a side chamber perhaps thirty yard ahead, and with it, the distant hiss and click of voices speaking the corrupted language of the Nine Hells—Infernal. The words, faint though they are, send shivers up the spines of the comrades..

⚔

Out of the companions’ perception, in a carven chamber filled with implements that might belong in a forge—or a nightmare—three figures occupy the space.

Two of the figures stand facing one another in a heated argument. The third crouches between them, hands bound in thick ropes that bite into his wrists.

The first devil shimmers with a bluish-red sheen—not skin, but exposed muscle. Veins pulse grotesquely on the surface of his enormous, flayed figure, each throb visible beneath the wet gleam of his form. When he speaks, his voice rumbles like the grinding of stones. “My methods are more effective, Kroag. Pain is an art form, and of which I am a master.”

The other devil, more human-sized, speaks in a piping, clipped alto. His lithe body appears to be made of some crystalline substance that glitters in the dim light—salt, perhaps, or ice that refuses to melt. “Your methods are messy, Excrucifer. And slow. I can inflict seventeen distinct agonies before you’ve even properly begun warming up.”

Between these two frightening presences, the tiefling calling himself Borark the Defiled strains against his bonds. Near where he kneels, the gear he had gathered in his desperate attempt to escape from Hell lies in a careless pile—a magical greataxe, rations, rope, and various other supplies stolen or scavenged from the frozen wastes.

“I really don’t care who tortures me,” Borark mutters under his breath, “as long as you get on with it or let me go.”

Neither devil appears to hear him. They are too absorbed in their professional dispute.

An echoing clang from somewhere outside the torture chamber draws the attention of all three. The sound rings through the cavern like a bell tolling the hour of something unfortunate.

The smaller devil, Kroag, turns toward the cavern entrance, his body catching the light in a thousand tiny fractures of the crystalline substance that covers it. “Guard the prisoner, Excrucifer!” he hisses, his voice sharp with command.

The larger one, dripping what might be blood—or might be something worse—onto the packed ice near Borark’s knees, snarls back. “I’m not stupid, Kroag, and we aren’t finished with this discussion!”

“Just. Guard. Him.” Kroag’s voice drops to something dangerous.

⚔

Thirty feet from the cavern entrance they are attempting to sneak up to, Reklaw glares at Arman.

The changeling stares down at his crowbar, which has somehow worked its way out of his pack and clattered to the stony ground. The echo fills the vast space with a resounding, metallic ringing that seems to go on forever, bouncing off walls they cannot see, announcing their presence to anything with ears within hundreds of  yards.

“I thought you were supposed to be a rogue,” Reklaw snaps, his whisper somehow conveying both volume and venom.

“It’s not my fault!” Arman hisses back, face flushed with embarrassment. “I can’t— ”

The click of approaching feet cuts through their bickering, focusing their attention forward with the suddenness of a blade.

Thunk creeps forward, surprisingly quiet for a creature of his size. His bugbear eyes pierce the gloom better than his companions’, and he raises one clawed hand in warning. Something’s coming.

A compact figure emerges from the side chamber, covered horns to hooves in what might be exotic armor of an unknown metal, but also might be made of large crystals or salt. The material catches the eerie light in unsettling ways, creating the illusion that the creature is both there and not-there, solid and crystalline, real and reflected.

It stands before them, clawed hands crossed at its waist, regarding them through slitted, orange eyes that burn like coals in a face that might charitably be called a face. When it speaks, its voice is odd and hollow, like wind through broken glass.

“Ah, greetings,” it says, and something in its tone suggests this is not a pleasant greeting. “I am Kroag, Affliction Devil, Third Class. Welcome to your eternal punishment.”

The creature seems to grin ear to pointed ear—and that is a considerable distance, as its mouth extends far wider than any mouth has a right to extend. Within that grin, hundreds of small, jagged teeth glitter in rows, packed into a maw that possesses no lips to hide them.

For a moment, the party stands frozen. This is clearly a devil of some kind, under the misapprehension that they have been sent here for some hellish purpose. Arman thinks that this is about to become a situation.

Then Thunk, bugbear of infinite optimism and questionable judgment, rushes forward. “Greetings!” he exclaims with genuine enthusiasm.

Kroag moves not an inch, regarding the bugbear through almond-shaped eyes that point severely downward at two slashes serving as what might be nostrils. “You are large,” the devil observes, its tone one of clinical interest. “I am fortunate to have things that will accommodate your great size.”

Thunk’s ears perk up. His eyes widen. “Things?” he repeats, voice rising with excitement. He turns his head back toward his companions, practically bouncing. “He has things!!” The bugbear begins to dance from foot to foot.

Behind him, Reklaw closes his eyes. The group do not yet know Thunk well, and already things may be getting…problematic.

Arman steps forward with his most diplomatic smile. “Ah, yes, hello! I’m Arman, and these are my companions. I think there may have been some sort of… miscommunication? You see, we’re not actually here for any punishment per se. We were just, ah, looking for our vehicle…a truck. Have you seen it? We fell down a tunnel, really. Complete accident.”

Kroag’s grin somehow widens further. “Oh, everyone who arrives here is passing through. Until they aren’t.”

⚔

Taking advantage of the bickering that had erupted moments ago between his two captors, Borark turns his back to the sound of Kroag’s departure. Excrucifer hovers nearby, still grumbling to itself, apparently more interested in winning the argument than in watching the prisoner.

Borark strains against his bonds. Twists. Pulls. The rope burns against his wrists, but he can feel something giving way. These devils clearly underestimated the strength of a barbarian—even a barbarian who has been having a very, very bad day.

He can hear Excrucifer moving toward him now, attention finally returning to his actual duty. The massive pain devil’s footsteps crunch crisply on the ice.

With a mighty wrench that pulls something in his shoulder, Borark bursts his bonds. The ropes snap with satisfying cracks.

“What—” Excrucifer grunts in surprise, his basso voice rising half an octave.

The limber tiefling rolls sideways toward his gear with acrobatic grace, coming up to stand with his enormous greataxe gripped in both hands. The weapon gleams dully in the flickering, dim light, and Borark allows himself a savage grin. “Thanks for keeping this safe for me.”

Borark darts out of the cave, boots finding purchase on the treacherous ice through sheer desperation. As he passes through the entrance, two ice mephits—small, impish creatures of living frost—take wing with startled chirps. They had been roosting near the entrance, and now they follow him, staying high out of reach of his weapon and chittering to each other in excitement.

Borark’s eyes adjust to the dimmer light of the main cavern. Ahead, he spots the crystalline form of Kroag, the affliction devil’s back turned as it speaks to—

Oh. Other people. Adventurers, by the look of them. One large bugbear, one changeling, others behind them.

In this moment, Borark makes a calculation. These strangers are either his salvation or another set of problems, but they’re certainly better than being tortured by two devils arguing over technique. And they may be his ticket out of Hell.

The decision takes a heartbeat. His course is set.

In four powerful strides, Borark closes the distance. His greataxe swings high, then low, then high again. The first strike bites deep into Kroag’s crystalline shoulder, sending shards of salt-ice scattering. The second strike finds the devil’s back, carving a line that oozes something dark and syrupy. The third swing goes wide, but two out of three isn’t bad.

Kroag’s pained shrieks are comically high-pitched. The affliction devil wheels around in surprised fury, his orange eyes blazing. “*You*!!” he hisses, voice cracking on the word.

Arman’s diplomatic smile freezes on his face. His carefully prepared words die in his throat. He exhales a breath that becomes visible in the freezing air—a long, defeated cloud of vapor that seems to say, Of course. Of course this is happening. I guess we’re fighting. Again.

The two ice mephits descend toward Borark with chittering war cries. The first one waves its tiny clawed hands in an intricate pattern, and suddenly a thick Fog Cloud erupts around the tiefling barbarian, obscuring him from view but—unfortunately for Kroag—not obscuring the devil.

The second mephit, eyes fixed on its target, dives down into the fog with claws extended, ready to rend and tear and generally be helpful to its devilish masters. It cannot see through its companion’s conjured mist. It strikes what it believes to be the tiefling but is, in fact, the stony cavern wall. There is a sound like breaking icicles as several of its claws snap off at the base. The mephit emits a scream of frustration and rage that echoes through the chamber, high and piercing.

“Bad wall!” it shrieks in Infernal, a language only Borark and Kroag share. “Bad, bad wall!”

Inside the fog, Borark grins savagely. Outside the fog, he cannot see Kroag clutching his wounds and glaring at the adventurers as if this is somehow their fault.

Behind them all, the heavy, clattering footsteps of Excrucifer grow louder as the pain devil emerges from the mist that enshrouds Borark. The enormous devil takes in the scene with extreme displeasure, although inwardly he is quite pleased he will have more victims.

⚔

Thunk stops dancing. “Oh,” he says, voice small. “These might not be good things.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ At the back of the scrum, Thunk hears Vali strumming his lute to provide a bit of Bardic Inspiration. Vali’s song, though beautiful as well as supportive, does little for Thunk, who twice swings his magical mace. Neither attempt connects with the devil calling itself Kroag. 

Kiki does an end run around the pair of devils, scooping up a large handful of stones and ice, then launching it against the nearest ice mephit with a Catapult spell. It strikes the creature squarely, causing it to emit a high pitched shriek of pain. Cascade of ice crystals erupting from it. Desperately wounded, the mephit sinks into the mist that it created earlier to engulf Borark.

 Reklaw races around to stand by Kiki and uses his martial arts skills against the giant newcomer. Excrucifer lashes both the monk and Kiki with his hell scourge. His final blow restrains Kiki, who struggles against her restraints.

The affliction devil, Kroag savages both Arman and Thunk, who drops to the Ivey cavern floor bleeding heavily. He rolls away and is able to cast Preserve Life on himself, the glow of health streaming into his furry body to bind wounds closed. 

While this is happening, from Kroag’s chin sprouts a long and viciously sharp proboscis. While the affliction devil’s claws hold Arman still, Kroag pierces a chink in his leather armor. Arman, however, twists before the needle-like appendage can deliver its poisonous payload. 

Borark resumes hammering on Kroag and the affliction devil releases Arman. Panting heavily and oozing ichor from many wounds, Kroag glares, readying himself for a ferocious response worthy of an Affliction Devil, Third Class, of Stygia.