Ra-Ra-Rakshasa! Oh la, oh la-laaa!!

(narrative write-up by Ser Baine Cinderwood 🔥🌼 , Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar , and Sunday)

Exhausted, sweating, and covered in bruises, Baine slumps back against the hard-packed earth of the compound’s sparring yard. He looks at Gretcha’s departing form and then down at the equipment around his feet. “Why the fuck am I left with this shit again?” he grumbles, half seriously.

“Because she thinks it’s character building; and because you lost the match, darling.” A high, soft, amused voice says behind him. ”The day you beat her ass is the day you don’t have to pack stuff away.”

Baine looks like he would flinch if he could but he just doesn’t have it in him after the sparring. He does however muster up his charming grin as he turns around to face this apparent source of wisdom. A small, purple-skinned Tiefling with long blonde hair is sitting atop the high wall of the compound, swinging her legs in the empty air.

“And what do I get when I beat your ass, Sunday?” He makes a big show of taking down the messy half-bun and putting it back up more securely, still talking as he goes. “I know it’s a ways off, but a man should have goals, yeah? Something to work for?”

“The day you beat me is the day I hang up my armour… and slip into something more comfortable.” Sunday replies with a smirk. “For now, let’s settle for keeping you alive.”

A more genuine smile breaks through the charm as Baine suddenly remembers something. “Oh, watch this!” He puts the fingers of one hand to his lips and whistles sharply.

Not five seconds later there’s the sound of something falling inside the stables and Sweet’s muffled swearing and a Frankie comes tearing through the yard, tongue out and scarf flapping about him. “I taught him to stay. He’s been waiting in with Sweet the whole time. He’s the best dog ever, isn’t he?”

With a squeal, Sunday vanishes from the wall and reappears in front of the pair. She drops to her knees, holding her arms out to Frankie, barking out what seems to be a question or some sort. Frankie leaves off trying to climb Baine’s leg and cocks his head bemusedly at Sunday. She repeats her question, and he trots over to her and licks her outstretched hand. Frankie looks over his shoulder at Baine, whines happily and barks twice. Sunday stands up, laughing, and says, “Well, he certainly loves you, Baine. I asked him - mostly joking - if he’d prefer to come and live with me instead and chase all the squirrels in the Feywild. He told me there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than right here with you.”

There’s a genuine look of amazement on Baine’s face. He bends down, picks Frankie up and holds him close, not saying anything for a moment, just pressing his face into the soft fur.

“Now,” Sunday continues, “What have you been up to since I last saw you? How’re you finding Varis and the Order? Bored yet? Come and sit.” She walks over to a bench up against the compound wall, seemingly carved from a single piece of wood.

Baine snaps out of it at the mention of Varis. He walks over to sit down next to the Tiefling, and looks around to make sure the man in question isn’t within ear shot. He bends down a little to be closer to Sunday’s height, setting Frankie down on the ground again.

“Sunday, he’s so cool.” For a whisper, it’s a very loud one. “I don’t understand how he can be so fucking cool in everything he does. It’s not fair!” He straightens up again and continues in a less stressed tone of voice. “I really like it here though. Definitely not bored yet. Why? Did you think I would be? I was a little worried they weren’t going to let me stay actually. People usually don’t. Red certainly wasn’t too keen on having me around. Have you met her? Terrifying woman.”

Sunday laughs merrily. “I’ve heard him described as many things - but I don’t think cool has ever been one of them… Don’t let him impress you too much. He wasn’t always so ‘cool’ - anyway, he’s still a bit too sombre for me. That’s one of the reasons I thought you might be a bit bored. Hanging out with him and Gretcha all the time. But she’s alright, that one; she’s slow to trust and has high standards. She can see through people’s bullshit like no-one else. Just don’t act too big for your boots in front of her.” Sunday says, wiggling her giant red boots - clearly six or seven sizes too big for her - under Frankie’s nose. “Have you managed to not make enough of a fool of yourself that Varis has sent you out on a mission? I heard you got mixed up in some trouble with Taffeta and Paw...”

“I mean, he didn’t really send me on that one,” Baine says. “I’ve been staying here and training with him and all but I still kind of go about my own business. That was the deal we made when I moved in.”

Baine shrugs and watches Frankie smell the bottom of Sunday’s boots. A movement across the yard causes both of them to turn and see Varis step through the doors leading out onto the training yard. Sunday holds up one of her hands to Varis, motioning for him to wait and give them a few minutes.

Baine continues, “I’m worried about Paw though. She’s been talking about this cat lord and suddenly there’s a bunch of Tabaxis running around Daring and she went… I dunno, she went like, feral? And there was this weird-lookin’ Tabaxi with funky-lookin’ hands like they got put on backwards? Taff killed that one though, boss as she is.”

Sunday raises her hand and a stick begins to emerge from her palm. As it reaches about a foot in length, she snaps it off and waves it in front of Frankie before standing up on the bench and launching it across the sparring yard. As the puppy goes haring off after it, Sunday stays where she’s standing and turns to look Baine directly in the eyes. The power and pain in her gaze is almost a physical blow, and Baine is visibly taken aback for a moment.

“The ‘weird-looking Tabaxi’ is called a Rakshasa. And this one’s name is Khingo Khan. It isn’t dead. It can’t be killed except on the plane where it was born. In this beast’s case, that’s Phlegethos - the fourth layer of the Nine Hells. Once it has regrown its form, it will return to hunt, torment, and kill Taffeta and her family. I came here to tell you. You should know what you might be caught up in. You didn’t kill it, but it will see you as an accomplice of Taf’s and may come after you too.”

Baine listens intently and struggles with this information for a good minute. He looks like the struggle might get the better of him.

“But- so, okay, so it isn’t dead? But we killed it? Can’t we just keep not-killing it if it comes back then? Between you and me and Taff and Paw-When-She’s-Angry I’m sure we could have that sorted?” He shrugs carelessly, not overly bothered by the thought of having made an enemy with overly dramatic hands. “Or do we like- should we go to the place it’s in now? Fledgy-thoss or whatever? Is it far?”

“I just said: you didn’t kill it. You merely destroyed the vessel its soul was riding in. A Rakshasa is shackled to life by its arcane ties to its true home - where it was spawned. You have to go to where it was born and strip its existence from reality.” Sunday says all this dispassionately, levelly, quietly, and without pause. “And anyway, Rakshasa are masters of disguise, disceit, and control. It could come back looking like Taffeta’s husband, walk right into their house, get into their bed, and slice Taffeta to pieces without her even knowing until its blade pierced her flesh. Even then she might not see through its illusion and die thinking her husband had killed her. Each time we killed it, if we could even find it in time, it would come back knowing more and more about us and where we live and how we operate. It will come back smarter and stronger each time. And this one in particular is owned by powerful people who would like nothing more than to help Khingo hurt us.”

Baine looks appropriately intimidated by this information but barrels on. “So even more reason to go then? Let’s just plop on over to wherever he’s hiding, fuck him up and-”

Sundays steps towards Baine and slaps him across the face. Her eyes, like frozen hailstones in the midst of a gale, stare into his.

“You fool.” Her tone like ice so cold it burns. “You have no idea what you are even saying. You think because you have won a few brawls in Port Ffirst, because you had a fucked-up sword, because Varis has drilled with you a few times that you can sit there and talk about walking into the Nine Hells. Into my home. And face my family. They won’t care about you. They won’t even look at you. If and when they decided to notice you, they will have my baby cousins peel your skin like the top layer of an onion and feed it to you. They will chain you up and force your dog to gnaw on your exposed bones. And then they will decide to start hurting you.” Sunday grabs Baine by the chin and her gaze bores into him. “They won’t care about you for a second. But I do care. We care.” Sunday jerks her head over towards the waiting Varis. ”You are not going anywhere near Phlegethos, boy. Ever. Do you understand?”

Baine swallows, audibly. He looks directly back into Sunday’s eyes, not flinching, but his hand trembles just a little as it comes up to grab hers where it’s holding his chin. He carefully pulls it away from his face and laces his fingers with hers. He looks scared and concerned. A little hurt. He opens his mouth to speak but hesitates, closes it again. Finally he covers her hand in both of his, cradling it carefully in his larger ones.

“Okay. I won’t.” He looks at her steadily, earnestly. “Sunday, I won’t go. Not if you think I shouldn’t. I promise. Okay?”

Sunday smiles instantly, like a noonday sun emerging from behind errant clouds. “Good. Glad that’s cleared up.” She pats Baine on the side of the cheek, healing the minimal damage her blow had caused.

Baine smiles back at her but his eyes stay questioning on her face. He cocks his head sideways, a furrow on his brow. “But what do you mean, ‘your home’? ‘Your family’? Is your family trying to kill Taffeta?”

Sunday looks down at the hands holding hers and sighs. “No, my family aren’t trying to kill Taffeta… I don’t think. But they do breed and own Rakshasa. Khingo was one of the ones we bred when I was a child. I don’t know why Khingo was here; and I think Taffeta was just unlucky enough to be the one to destroy his body. He was bred in my family’s palace; so that’s where he’ll have gone to recover, I suspect.”

Baine gives a low whistle. “Okay, yeah, that’s. That’s a lot. I’m- I’m sorry.” he says, simply.

Sunday turns to Varis and motions him over, before looking back at Baine. “I’m sorry for hitting you. But you need to learn. Not just how to fight or kill. But how to live and stay living.”

Baine can’t help himself and gives her a cheeky wink. “You know I like it when you beat me up a little, Sunday. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Sunday laughs and winks back. “And you also need to learn to question what you do or are told to do before you do it - if you have time. Don’t let this place turn you into a machine. Don’t accept what someone says just because they have more ‘authority’ than you,” She points at the approaching Varis - and then points at herself. “Or just because they’re prettier than you. Especially if they’re prettier than you.”

Baine laughs and looks over to the Half-Elf making his way across the yard. “Point taken. I should clean this mess up before he decides I need another round to learn my lesson.” He stands up, his eyes darting from Varis to Sunday and back again. He squeezes her hand, says “Let me help though, if I can?” before letting it go and stepping away. Sunday nods gratefully in return. Baine picks up the equipment, and gives Varis a lazy salute and a “Sir” as he passes him on his way back into the armoury.


The door to the training yard creaks slightly as it swings open and Gretcha’s solid form fills the gap. Looking up sharply from his papers, Varis shakes his head in exasperation.

“Nine Hells, woman - don’t you knock? What if I’d been dressing?”

The Dwarven woman’s blunt, scarred face splits into an exaggeratedly lecherous grin.

“So much the better.”

The grin fades with a dismissive snort, and she saunters into the room, picking her teeth with a broad fingernail.

“Relax, pretty boy - I’ve seen better men do worse. Speaking of which -“ her grin returns with a wolffish edge “I’ve just come from handing Baine his ass and your girlfriend’s outside, sitting there all agitated. Surprised she hasn’t just magicked herself onto the roof or in through the window like usual.”

A small frown creases Varis’s brow, and he puts his pen down, pushing back his chair. “Sunday is here?”

Gretcha nods, matching Varis’s frown with her own. “In the yard.” She hesitates for a moment. “She looks pretty serious.”

Standing, Varis nods absently, his frown deepening as he pushes the chair back into place behind the desk and moves toward the door. “Thank you, Gretcha.”

The Dwarven woman nods, exiting through the second door into the main bunk room. Varis pauses a moment before the door, then steps out into the grey, overcast afternoon light.

On the far side of the yard, Sunday sits on a bench with Baine; Frankie is at their feet. Spotting him emerge from the building, Sunday holds up her hand briefly, asking Varis to give her a few moments. Watching the two, Varis can see the conversation grow more and more animated until Sunday steps in and slaps Baine hard across the side of the head. Varis starts - and goes to move towards the pair, but pulls up short when Baine takes Sunday’s hand in both of his and nods to her. Turning, Sunday waves Varis over with her free hand, and as they finish their conversation, the Half-Orc stands up and heads back towards the barracks, picking up the sparring equipment in his huge arms as he goes. He nods as he passes Varis.

“Fucking weird mood she’s in, that one” he mutters, jerking his head over his shoulder towards the Tiefling sitting on the bench. “Sir.” he adds lazily.

Varis gives him a distracted smile, clapping a hand on his huge shoulder but doesn’t reply. When Baine is out of sight, he crosses the remaining stretch of hard-packed earth, stopping just short of where Sunday sits with her back against the wall of the compound. As he draws nearer to his friend, he can clearly see her sombre, almost worried, expression. She looks up as he approaches and pats the empty space beside her.

“Thank you for seeing me, Varis. I need your help.”

He nods, joining her on the bench. “Of course. What troubles you, my friend?” The slight crease between his brows deepens as he rests a hand on the edge of the seat. There has never been a bench in the yard. More than that, it seems to be a single piece of wood, its legs sunk deep into the earth, and small buds and flowers sprouting from the edges.

“Sunday, did you grow a bench in my training yard?”

“What?” She replies distractedly. “Oh, yes. Thought this place needed somewhere for an audience to sit and watch you beat up the initiates. I can take it down if you’d like?”

He smiles but makes no other response, waiting for her to continue. She takes a breath, turning to look at him.

“I came here because I need your help. I need a lot of people’s help, probably. Taffeta killed a Rakshasa.” She pauses, waiting to see if he understands what this means.

The reaction is instantaneous. All trace of humour vanishes from the Half Elf’s face. “When? And where? Did you see it yourself or are we working from Taffeta’s accounting of events? Who else was with her?”

Suddenly he pounds his fist into the bench. There is a sharp crack. “Black gods! It never ends, does it?” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Sunday. I seem to have broken your bench.”

Looking down she can see it's true – splits run out from the unmistakable imprint of a fist in the top of the bench. There is a small smear of blood where the force of the impact has broken the skin on the Half Elf’s knuckles. He frowns at it absently, and the flesh knits back together. He wipes away the rest of the blood and looks up at Sunday, face weary.

“You’d better start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”

"Well,” Sunday says, looking up at the clear sky, “Apparently, the Duchess supplied Paw with information about a Tabaxi artefact that was being traded on the black market. Paw came looking for Taffeta to ask her for help in retrieving it. It seems important to Paw. With a few others, they tracked down this merchant, but he’d been murdered and the item stolen. They followed the trail to a group of Tabaxi in the middle of performing some rite involving the item. A fight broke out; Taffeta killed the leader of the group. But Paw recognised it as being a Rakshasa and not another Tabaxi. I was sceptical myself until she mentioned the creature’s hands were facing backwards – and that their body disintegrated when it seemingly died. They managed to capture one of the Tabaxi and turned her over to Rholor to guard. Taffeta came to me and asked if I knew anything about Rakshasa. Rakshasas? Rakshasae? I’ve always wondered about that.”

Sunday pauses, hesitant, and turns to look Varis in the eyes. “Anyway, I’ve just come from questioning the prisoner. It was a Rakshasa that Taf killed. What’s more, I know which one. A creature called Khingo Khan. Baine was there, too. I spoke to him just now: his description matches everything I’ve heard and uncovered. I believe Tugark, Grimes, and Pieni also volunteered for the mission to help Paw – so we can check with them for confirmation if needed. But I’m in no doubt it’s him.”

She’s on the verge of saying more, but can’t seem to find the words.They share the silence for a moment, neither one quite knowing where to begin. Finally Varis sighs, and when he speaks his voice is almost a whisper, laced with gallows humour.

“So. To the gates of the Hells then, old friend. I’ve long suspected you’d be the death of me. I never thought you’d see me damned into the bargain.”

He pauses, catching himself before speaking. Then his eyes take on a steely resolution.

“There are two things I must tell you if we are to do this. First and most importantly, this is not the only denizen of the lower planes that Kantas has seen in these last few months. An Erinyes by the name of Heilesna the Firebrand was encountered beneath the Sunset Spine a few months ago.”

Sunday looks almost unspeakably sad as she asks the only question that matters, knowing full well what the answer will be.

“And who slew her?”

Varis smiles, a glint of mischief in his eye.

“Ginead the Green.” The smile fades, replaced by weariness. “But it was I who did battle with her, my lions - Mor’Athil and Syolkiir - that pulled her from the air, and I against whom she swore enmity. So, if it is Baator we must venture to, there may be more than one name on our list when we arrive.”

Sunday snorts, “What was that one doing fighting an Erinyes?! Green is aptly named; he’s green like spring shoots that one. Oh, he’ll grow strong and true - but only if he can keep his head clear… and on his neck!” She climbs down from the bench, barely the same height as the seated Varis. The Half-Elf is struck by just how young she actually is. She looks round at Varis. “One name; a hundred names: it doesn’t matter, we’re doing this.” She smiles cheekily. ”And now we’ve got an added reason to get your fat ass out of that chair and back into the field. What was that fiend doing beneath the mountains anyway?”

Varis shifts on the bench, seemingly without noticing what he’s doing. “I don’t know why it was there. It was running some kind of mining operation using walking corpses, though only for gold and gemstones, which was puzzling to say the least. Fiends don’t deal in material wealth. I got the thing’s name from the Duchess, but I haven’t been able to investigate further – between Vorsthold, the Order and trying to track down all the entrances to the Underdark I’m spread a little thin at the moment.” He looks it, dark rings beneath his eyes and a sluggishness to his movements. He shakes his head as though to clear it.

“The only use I can think of that a creature like an Erinyes would have for material wealth is to buy the services of creatures like you.” Sunday replies, poking a finger into Varis’ all-too human chest. “You Materials do love your shiny things.” She says, with absolutely no apparent irony or self-awareness.

“So then.” Varies continues, “We will need allies if we are to breach Baator. You, me and Mrs Thistletop won’t be enough. Daisy I suspect will help – she and Taffeta are friends. Perhaps Rholor, and I think I could convince Grimes to accompany us, though Taffeta may not like that. I gather there is some animosity between them.”

“I’ll force Grimes and Taff to get along for this if needs be.” Sunday mutters, half-seriously. “Are any of your Order ready for a test like this? Apart from Baine. What’re you teaching that boy anyway? He jumped straight into volunteer just like you do, the brave idiot. I’ve just told him he’s not coming. I think he wasn’t lying when he said he’d do as he was told. Paw will want to help, too: she’s tight with Daisy and Taff - and this is all tied up with something important for her people. Although, she’s disappeared somewhere. Like I used to. Funny how all theses things are coming together...almost unavoidable...”

Sunday trails off. She closes her eyes and doesn’t say anything for a minute or two. She places her hands on the damaged bench. After a moment, the wood and flora begin to reknit and regrow - mending the shattered structure of the seat. She sits still for a couple more minutes, breathing in the aroma of freshly grown flowers.

After a while, Varis asks, “I don’t know where I would find Heilesna – do you know where this Khingo Khan is likely to be?”

Eyes still closed, Sunday says, “My family breed and own Rakshasa, raising them like humans raise cattle, and selling them to other noble families in the Hells to use as servants or weapons or spies. Khingo Khan is one that my family bred and gave to me when I was a baby. He was forced… no… I forced him to train me how to hide, how to wear other people’s faces, how to manipulate creatures to do what I want. How to hunt and kill. I grew up in my aunt’s palace in Phlegethos - if he’s anywhere in that circle of Hells, he’ll be recovering there.”

“Good. That at least is one less question we must answer. I will speak with Rholor about Heilesna – perhaps he will know a way to find her. As for the Order – they’re soldiers. Strong, disciplined and loyal. But they would not last two minutes against the creatures we seek. I will not ask them to throw their lives away. Baine…I do not know. He has strength, and he is beginning to see a world beyond his own desires, but I suspect you are right. He is not ready.”

His lips quirk up in a smile.

“Then again, were you and I ready when we fought Raxivort? When we freed the Fey of the Dreams? When we rescued Wil from their own fears? I am not convinced any of us is every ready. We simply decide to do what must be done.”

Sunday opens her eyes and smiles at the memories. “You’re right. I know I’m still not ready now! But don’t go telling Baine that; not after I just gave him a great speech about knowing your limits and how it is equally important to preserve your own light as well as protecting others. It’ll just make me look stupid.” She sighs. “I’m glad for your support. We’ve known each other for a while and I’ll feel safer having you by my side. This business with the Rakshasa is all down to Taffeta, though: I want her to have the final say in anything we do around this - this is her family after all. Agreed?”

Varis frowns slightly, choosing his words carefully when he answers.

“I will do my utmost to respect her wishes, especially where it concerns the safety of her family. But understand this, Sunday – Taffeta is no soldier. She may be a fine warrior, but she is not a leader, and while her stake in this may be more personal than most, these creatures threaten all of Daring. I do not foresee any conflict of interest, but I will not consign absolute control of this venture to a woman I suspect will put her family before all else. I hope you can understand that, my friend. The good of the many must come before the safety of the few.”

Sunday nods slowly. “I understand, and I hope you know I will always try to equally balance the good of the many and the safety of the few. I think Khingo will be focused solely on taking revenge against Taffeta and her family - but you’re right: this wider, growing Hellish threat is certainly something we won’t ignore. If something comes to Daring, I will fight it; if Taffeta does not wish to pursue Khingo into Phlegethos, I will abide by that; if you go into Hell to root out Heilesna, I will accompany you.”

Sunday looks round at the compound, noting the business and industry. “Quite an impressive operation you’re building here. You’re turning into a real pillar of Daring. The next Rholor.” She punches Varis teasingly on the arm - and then asks, seemingly out of nowhere. “So, who’s Thia?”

Varis seems to have been caught somewhat off guard by the question. He sits for a moment in silence, open his mouth several times as though to answer and then closing it again. Finally, he turns and looks at Sunday.

“She’s my sister. My twin, in fact. She and my mother-“ his voice catches and he coughs, as though he were clearing his throat. “She and my mother are still in Faerun. We did not part on good terms.”

Abruptly he stands, taking a few steps away from the bench before turning back.

“You know the denizens of hell better than I, so I will defer to you on what a Rakshasa or an Erinyes might be capable of. But I think if you are honest with yourself, you know that creatures like that do not seek merely to kill their enemies. They hunt and torment everyone who is dear to their foe, assume the faces of friends, lovers, the most casual of acquaintances. I wonder how many of Daring’s citizens would be an acceptable price for Taffeta’s freedom of choice?”

Sunday makes no response - other than to raise a concerned eyebrow at the sudden change in her friend and his choice of words. Varis stands for a moment in silence, looking at her, then bows – the formality of the obeisance strangely jarring in this hard, functional space.

“Forgive me, Sunday, I have much to attend to. Thank you for bringing this to me. I hope we may speak more of it soon.”

With a final nod, he turns and begins walking towards his quarters, the thick oak door closing behind him with an air of finality.

Sunday watches Varis go with a pitying expression on about her face, but makes no move to stop him or call out to him. She sits there for a half hour or so, before whistling loudly. Dust and dirt kicks up around her as the backdraft of eLk’s wings washes up the yard’s debris. He lands in front of her and cocks his head to one side, swinging his gaze between the closed door and Sunday. Sunday shrugs slowly, and says “Family.” She clambers onto her companion’s back, and eLk launches himself into the air.