The fierce heat of Phlegethos surrounds the party, hot as a furnace. Waves of superheated air shimmer across the barren landscape, distorting the horizon into a wavering crimson rock and sulfurous clouds. In the distance, the comrades can see their goal.
“We’ll need to go to the Lair of the Salamanders,” Vali points at the distant spire of volcanic cone. His voice carries the weight of inevitability—there is no other choice if the friends wish to escape this infernal realm to continue to further, lower levels of the Nine Hells.
Reklaw nods grimly, lemure-form shoulders set in determination. “We will need them to make us a key to leave Phlegethos.” The words hang heavy in the scorching air.
As the group resume their trudge across the hellish terrain, Lula stumbles repeatedly. With each pained step, their sharp gasps of pain are counterpoints to the crunch of volcanic glass beneath their stubby, lemure feet. Behind Lula, the manacled goblin-rakshasa trotted frantically, his shorter legs moving rapidly to keep pace, eyes darting nervously between his captors and the hostile landscape around them.
The first sign of trouble came as a rhythmic clack-clack-clack echoing across the wasteland—the unmistakable sound of bone grinding against bone. The party recognize the approach of a bone devil, and they recognize his sash of office: the Guardian of the Bridge over the River of Blood.
Reklaw had so cleverly misdirected the gullible creature to the Tower of Pain with a well-executed Suggestion spell. The bone devil became convinced that there was a summons for it from the Tower of Pain, and departed at speed, leaving the bridge unguarded and allowing for the group to cross. Now, with its return, it is clearly not in a forgiving the party for honoring their promise to wait for it before crossing.
The creature alighted on a low rise with predatory grace, its skeletal frame towering against the blood-red sky. Each step forward was accompanied by that terrible rattling as ancient bones shifted and ground together. Its eye sockets blazed with infernal fire as it advanced, radiating an aura of barely contained rage. Its skeletal claws, raised mantislike to its chest, click together ominously.
“One of you,” it hissed, its voice like grinding tombstones, “enchanted me! I was NOT needed at the Tower of Pain!” The devil’s burning gaze swept over each member of the party in turn, searching for guilt, for fear, for any sign of deception. “Which one of you mere lemures dared make a fool of me?”
Reklaw shuffles forward with admirable composure, his voice steady despite the supernatural terror radiating from the bone devil. “It was one of the salamanders,” he says with the perfect mix of indignation and helpfulness. “One of them told us that you should be sent away because you smell… strangely.”
The bone devil’s skull tilts back as it processes this information, its jaw unhinging in a way that defies anatomy. Then it howls—a sound that shatters the relative silence of the desolate landscapes. As the echoes return to them from the distant volcanic peaks, the party shudders.
“Which salamander?” the devil demands, its voice rising to a shriek that make ears ring. “Which of those fire-breathing worms dares to spread such vile lies about me?”
Reklaw maintains his innocent expression as best as he is able given the lemure face he currently wears. He delivered his tentative answer: “Um, the biggest one?”
The effect is instantaneous and spectacular. The bone devil’s fury reaches a crescendo as actual flames dance along its skeletal frame. “Reteterex!” it screeches, the name tears from its throat like a curse. “Reteterex, this insult shall not go unanswered! I will flay the scales from your hide and use them to decorate my lair!”
With a sound like a hurricane, the creature launches itself skyward, its leathery wings beating with such force that they create downdrafts that send clouds of ash swirling around the party. They watch as it becomes a shrinking speck of malevolent energy heading directly toward the spire that must be the Salamander’s Lair.
The party had barely resumed their journey when the ground begins to tremble with a new threat. The rumble grows louder, accompanied by the distinctive roar of an engine that has no business existing on this level of the Nine Hells. Cresting a nearby ridge comes an enormous, four-armed girallion devil behind the wheel of what appeared to be a heavily modified Ford F-150 truck.
The vehicle, already a masterpiece of engineering, has been infernally artificed to allow the truck to survive in this hellish environment. Green iron panels, welded together, cover every exterior surface, giving it the appearance of patchwork. The most striking modification was the railgun mounted on the truck’s roof —the weapon, already of supernatural origin, the dull green barrel crackles with menacing energy. Several imps hang from its length. Beneath it, the snouts of the ion and arcane cannons stud the flanks of the truck. In its bed, the massive wrecking ball, now swathed in green iron, swings menacingly from its heavily armored counterweighted frame.
The truck screeches up in a cloud of sulfurous exhaust and brimstone-scented smoke. The girallion driver—a creature that looks like someone had crossed a gorilla with a wrestler with anger management issues—leaps from the cab with surprising agility for someone so very muscled.
“Have you seen the bone devil? Was he there when you crossed with your prisoners?” The creature gestures at the goblin and the shouldering Lula, its four arms gesticulating wildly. “The bridge is undefended! I left the repairs depot expecting that skeletal fool to stop us! We of course have the requisite forms correctly filled out, but now I find empty air where he should be standing guard! Who will validate my paperwork? ”
The party exchanged quick glances, recognizing another opportunity. Once again, Reklaw stepped forward to weave yet another deception.
“Oh, that,” he said with feigned concern, “the bridge guard has been summoned by Reteterex the Salamander. Word is, the big salamander is planning something… something that might undermine the girallion forces and other powers in Phlegethos.”
The effect on the four-armed devil was immediate and dramatic. Its eyes blazed with the same infernal fire they had seen in the bone devil, and all four of its massive fists clenched simultaneously. “That fire-breathing usurper!” it roared. “I knew he was planning something! No salamander makes moves in MY territory without consequences! I am a defender of Belial the Overlord of Phlegethos and the Archduchess Lady Fierna, his daughter!”
As the girallion leaps back into the vehicle, Kiki and Reklaw see their chance. With daring leaps, they managed to leap onto the truck’s tailgate just as the engine roars to life. The vehicle lurches forward with frightening speed, carrying them across the hellish landscape toward their intended destination—though perhaps not in the manner they had originally planned.
The ride is harrowing. Bone-jarring impacts and near-misses with jagged rocks nearly throw them from the truck, but them manage to cling to the back door. Before them, the imps noticed these unauthorized passengers and began casually pointing various weapons in their direction—crossbow bolts that glowed with hellfire, miniature cannons that sparked with eldritch energy, and blades that seemed to cut the air itself. A trio of enterprising imps swing the railgun to directly point at the pair, and Kiki gulps nervously.
Finally, the girallion brings the truck to a screeching halt before a cave mouth that glowed like the entrance to a forge. They are at the Salamander’s Lair. Without hesitation, the enraged devil charged into the cavern, his bellowing voice echoing from the depths: “RETETEREX! Come out and face me, you scale-covered coward!”
On the truck bed, Kiki and Reklaw find themselves in an increasingly precarious situation. The imps surrounding them are no longer content to merely point weapons—several had cocked their crossbows with deliberate, ominous clicks that echoed in the sudden silence following the girallion’s departure.
“So,” one of the imps said with a voice like grinding metal, “you two wouldn’t happen to be the ones responsible for all this chaos, would you?” Its beady red eyes glittered with malicious intelligence.
Kiki and Reklaw desperately attempt to spin yet another tale of misdirection, but the imps’ expressions remain skeptical. More weapons are raised, and the sound of multiple safeties being clicking off fill the air.
⚔
Meanwhile, back on the fiery plains, the rest of the party encounters yet another complication. A dark-cloaked figure approaches through the heat shimmer—at first appearing as little more than a dancing mirage, but gradually resolving into something far more substantial and dangerous.
The stranger lands with devilish grace, pointed black hooves touching down on the scorched earth without disturbing so much as a grain of volcanic sand. His scarlet skin seems to absorb and reflect the hellish light around him, while his white hair moves in the superheated winds like liquid silver. Most striking were his eyes—large, liquid brown orbs that seemed almost gentle but for the ancient intelligence burning within them.
His leathery black wings fold against his bark-brown robes with a sound like leather settling, and when he speaks, his voice carries the cultured tones of nobility mixed with something far more dangerous.
“Tell me,” he said, his gaze moving slowly across the group before settling on the miserable Lula, “are you truly satisfied with the menial assignment you’ve been given? Prisoner transport?” He speaks the words with barely concealed disdain. “Surely beings of your obvious… capabilities… deserve better than such degrading work.”
The group shift uncomfortably under his penetrating stare. Finally, Arman steps forward, his belligerent nature getting the better of his caution. “And what else are you offering, exactly?” he demands.
The stranger’s lips curved in what might be a smile, though it doesn’t reach those deceptively gentle eyes. “My name is Chamo,” he purrs, “and I am embarking on a venture that will reshape the very power structure of Phlegethos. I intend to overthrow Belial and his harpy of a daughter, Fierna. The question is—would any among you be interested in joining me in a bit of… insurrection?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Most of the party exchanged nervous glances, clearly weighing the risks of involving themselves in what amounted to a coup attempt against one of the rulers of the Nine Hells. Finally, only Arman steps forward, his eyes gleaming with the promise of power and revenge.
“I’m in,” he declared, his voice carrying a conviction that surprised even himself.
Chamo’s smile becomes genuine for the first time. “Excellent. Come, then—we have work to do. We will kill your companions shortly.”
The devil’s wings spread wide, revealing their impressive span and the intricate patterns of scars and markings that decorated the leather-like membrane. With a powerful beat, he launched himself skyward, his claws gently but firmly grasping Arman as they ascend into the blood-red sky.
The flight across Phlegethos is both terrifying and magnificent. Below them, the landscape unfolds like a hellish map—rivers of lava cutting through obsidian plains, cities of brass and bone rising from the wasteland, and in the distance, their destination: the island fortress of Abriymoch.
As they approached the seat of Belial’s power, Arman could see why it had remained unconquered for so long. The fortress rises from the center of a lake of molten metal, connected to the mainland by a single bridge that arced high above the superheated surface. Towers and spires twist skyward like reaching claws, their surfaces crawling with defensive enchantments that sparkled in the hellish light.
“Now,” Chamo purred as they landed on the approach to the bridge, “about your reward. You wish to be restored to your true form, yes? To shed this lemure body that has been forced upon you?”
Arman nodded eagerly, barely able to contain his anticipation.
“Then prove your worth,” Chamo continues, his voice taking on a commanding tone. “Reconnoiter for me. Find where Belial now holds court within that stronghold, and you will receive not only your restoration but power beyond your current imagination.”
Reluctantly, Arman trudged across the bridge. He is disappointed that he must spend yet more time in this form, but Chamo is correct: His lemure form attracting no attention from the various guards and functionaries moving about the fortress. As he explored the maze-like interior, his persistence was rewarded with an incredible stroke of luck—he finds himself standing before the massive, ornately carved doors of what could only be the throne room.
Through the slight gap beneath the doors, he could hear the rumble of voice echoing from within, conducting the business of ruling one of the Nine Hells. Then, in what he has been waiting for, Arman hears, “As you command, Lord Belial.”
Arman’s twisted smile grows wide as he realized he has accomplished his mission far more easily than he had dared hope.
The game was afoot, and the very foundations of Phlegethos were about to shake.
