Somewhere along the River Styx...

Alalla’s warrior mind can’t keep from analyzing the actions of the army. The coordination of the troops, the position of their defenses, she takes in every detail she can out of habit.

When Zariel speaks to her she is surprised out of her focus. She thought she would continue to be ignored or be obliterated. She looks up at the woman, neck craning. So that’s how Ras must feel.

"Oh, well. I’m a foolish, ignorant mortal. I can’t possibly fathom the depths of the thoughts and weight of the plots Bellyfat bears on his shoulders." Al folds her arms. Ah, snark. Snark feels good. "But mostly I think he doesn’t get why I don’t want to rally the entirety of orc-kind behind him and his plans for world domination. Planar domination? Anyway, a conversation could have fixed that, but I get the sense that he doesn’t ever do things the simple way."

The ache threatens to rise through the apathy and snark at the thought of the other person who should have just talked to her. You knew better. She drowns it again.

Zariel plants her magnificent sword into the dirt and leans on it. Alalla thinks she might be rolling her eyes, but it is hard to tell with the light that shines from them. "So he sends you to me as a peace offering." Again, the woman's words hum with power, and Alalla marvels at her understanding of them. Whatever Zariel is, she is unlike anything Alalla has ever seen. Except... perhaps for Zenithral. Those wings are not the gleaming wings of her half-elf companion, but neither are they the leathery bat wings of a fiend. What, exactly, is she?

"Belhifet plays when he should be here. Do you have any idea how much his absence has cost us?" She gestures at the battle raging around them. "He has missed hundreds of these skirmishes - not to mention the rumblings of the next Surge." She tightens her grip on the sword hilt as though testing its integrity. "And as a way of recompense, he sends you? He is as infuriating now as he ever was here."

Zariel looks Alalla up and down. "What is this you claim concerning orc-kind? What are you to them? To Gruumsh?"

Alalla considers the things Zariel's words teach her as best she's can through the humming of her skull. "Infuriating is the word. Well it's nice to know he's making everyone else crazy, too."

Zariel's questions surprise her. Looks like Poquelin doesn't talk to his allies either.

Alalla shrugs. "You'd have to ask them. As far as I can tell I think your friend just thinks I'd make a good general to rally the orcs." Not the full truth, but she has learned the hard way what happens when she opens up. This woman is a devil, whatever else she is, and will use any leverage she can against her, Al is sure.

Zariel stares for a long moment into Alalla's eyes. "Belhifet is cold and calculating. But he is not often mistaken." She pushes the sword deeper into the red dust as she leans on it. "If he thinks it is possible to wrest all of the orc souls from the grasp of the One-Eyed God, he is quite likely right. I do not have the patience for intricate dealings with mortals or deities. My concerns are here." She gestures to the battlefield. "But every soul we gain to fight on our side here is one more than we had. And we will need all of them for what's coming."

Zariel stomps her booted feet, obviously uncomfortable remaining out of the fight for long. "I don't have the time to give you a pep talk." Her feathered wings flare with fire as emotion rises in her voice. The heat is enough to leave Alalla's skin smarting and choke her breath away. The sword in her hands begins to turn the dirt around it to glass. "But this is where the line has been drawn. Here is where we make our stand to hold back the tide of chaos that would end everything. The choice for you to make for yourself - and possibly for the rest of the orcs in Faerûn and elsewhere - is this: Do something useful for the multiverse, or continue on into ungrateful oblivion like the rest of the masses."

A bellow unlike anything Alalla has ever heard makes the conjured walls about them shake. Several large objects hit the dirt nearby. They are the severed heads of pit fiends, their expressions frozen in terror. Alalla has just a moment to wonder what being could have possibly slain these great baatezu, when they dissolve into red dirt. It seems that this ocean of dust marks not only the graves of demons.

Zariel utters a curse so vile and powerful that it nearly overwhelms Alalla's senses. She tears her sword free from the ground, spraying molten sand in an arc above her. "Better people than you have looked on what happens in this place and still turned their backs." Again, Alalla notices her feathery wings. Surely a creature such as this is not native to this hellish place.

Then, looking past Zariel, Alalla sees something horrendous tear down a wall. The largest demon she has yet seen, it has the scaled legs and tail of a tyrannosaur, the body of an enormous ape, arms that end in tentacles strong enough to crush walls to rubble, and two heads... those maddening heads. They have features reminiscent of a baboon's, or a crocodile's, but nothing Alalla has ever witnessed can prepare her for the eyes of Demogorgon, the Prince of Demons.



Under the crushing, insane weight of that gaze, Alalla feels her mind break.

As the awful creature advances. Zariel touches Alalla's shoulder with the tip of her sword, and Alalla again feels the pull on her gut that signals a spell of planar travel.

"If the gods themselves will not stem the tide, then I will do it myself."

The last thing Alalla sees before the spell yanks her away is Zariel whirling upon the demon lord, molten sword held high in two hands, wings expanding and glowing so hot as to warp the air around her.

And then Alalla is gone.