Reklaw twists desperately within the hellish scourge that binds him, the barbed coils biting into his flesh with each movement. Despite the agonizing restraint, the monk refuses to yield. His fists and feet lash out in a flurry of strikes, seeking any weakness in his tormentor.
His first two blows connect with the pain devil’s body and return coated in sticky, scarlet ichor—the creature’s skin weeps the substance like sap from a wounded tree. The devil’s broad, mocking grin stretches wider as it watches Reklaw’s futility. Then the monk’s foot connects solidly with the fiend’s jaw. The grin vanishes. The devil snarls, its lipless mouth pulling back to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth as it twists the scourge tighter in punishment.
Across the frozen battlefield, Borark makes a mighty swing with his magical mace. The weapon arcs through the frigid air—but the barbarian misjudges. He spins completely around, momentum carrying him too far, and the mace crashes against the icy stone floor with a resounding *crack*. A jolt of energy shoots up the weapon’s handle and into Borark’s arm, making his teeth clench. He knows immediately: the mace is flawed now. Changed. But *how* remains uncertain.
He has no time to ponder it. The ice mephit darts forward, its crystalline body refracting the pale light as its chest swells. It exhales a blast of frost breath directly at the barbarian. Borark throws himself sideways at the last instant, the icy stream missing him by inches—close enough that he feels the bitter cold against his cheek. Rage floods through him. With a roar, he hurls his javelin at the impudent creature. The weapon pierces clean through the mephit’s torso.
The ice elemental crashes to the stone floor and explodes in a harmless spray of frost and vapor at Borark’s feet.
Meanwhile, Kiki stoops to scoop up chunks of ice from the cavern floor. Arcane energy crackles around the stones as she weaves them into her magic, then flings them at the affliction devil with a *Catapult* spell. The projectiles strike true. The infernal creature crumples to the ground and lies still, its twisted form unmoving.
The pain devil wheels on her immediately. Its scourge cracks through the air like thunder. The lash strikes Kiki with brutal force, and she collapses to the frozen stone, blood pooling beneath her dying form.
“Kiki!” Arman rushes behind her fallen body, his rapier flashing as he attempts to capitalize on the distraction. The blade strikes the pain devil’s hide—and slides off uselessly. The creature’s sticky, scarlet coating proves too thick, too resilient. Arman grits his teeth in frustration and retreats, unable to drag Kiki’s body with him.
“Hold on!” Thunk’s voice cuts through the chaos as he calls out a prayer to his deity. Divine energy washes over the fallen sorcerer. Kiki gasps, her eyes flying open as she rolls onto her side, coughing violently and clutching her ribs.
Still entangled in the scourge, Reklaw launches another flurry of blows. His fists become a blur of motion, each strike finding its mark with devastating precision. One particularly vicious punch connects with the devil’s temple, and the creature staggers. For just a moment—perhaps the first time in its immortal existence—Reklaw thinks he sees *fear* flicker in those burning eyes. The devil’s grip on the scourge loosens. The coils fall away. Reklaw drops lightly to the ground, landing in a crouch.
“My turn,” Borark growls, charging around to flank the pain devil. In a berserker frenzy, he brings his mace down three times in rapid succession—*crack, crack, crack*—each blow landing with devastating force. The first strike opens a gash across the devil’s shoulder. The second caves in ribs. The third—
Pain explodes up Borark’s arm. A wound opens on his own shoulder, mirroring exactly the injury he’s just inflicted on the devil. Blood streams down his arm. He understands now. The flaw in his mace. A curse of shared suffering.
“Gah!” He swears viciously, but doesn’t relent. If he must bleed to kill this thing, so be it.
The pain devil, however, has had enough. It launches itself into the air with a powerful thrust of its heavy wings. “Borark!” it shrieks as it retreats. “Don’t think we will forget! You *will* be punished!” The devil’s voice echoes off the icy cavern walls as it flees into the darkness.
Borark barks rough, guttural insults at the creature’s retreating form until it disappears from sight.
The party regroups, breathing heavily. Thunk moves to Kiki’s side and channels a *Preserve Life* prayer over her. Warm, golden light flows into the sorcerer’s battered body, knitting wounds and restoring vitality impressively.
As the immediate danger passes, they turn their attention to introductions. The newest member of their band—Borark—beats his chest with his uninjured fist. “I have killed many,” he boasts, his voice filled with pride.
The others exchange doubtful glances. In the Nine Hells, such claims are cheap as copper. Trust is earned, not given. Still, they’re suspicious more than dismissive. This *is* Hell, after all.
They share their mission: to find the truck. Vali closes her eyes and weaves the incantation for *Locate Object*, her fingers tracing arcane patterns in the air. When she opens her eyes, she points east. “That way.”
“I will accompany you,” Thunk offers, “if you help me find my friend, Clunk.” He sniffs the frigid air, his nostrils flaring. “I can scent him. He’s somewhere to the south.”
The party agrees, and they depart through a narrow passage into another vast cavern.
They’ve barely stepped inside when something massive moves in the shadows. A *remorhaz* slithers off its nest with a sound like grinding stone. The creature’s body glows with internal heat—segments of crimson and orange alternating down its length like a living forge. Behind it, they can see six identical eggs arranged in a careful cluster… and a seventh egg, clearly different from the rest.
The remorhaz fixes its many eyes upon the intruders and hisses, steam rising from its burning carapace.
