You wander through the rolling, dew-kissed fields of Faerûn, where the tall grass sways in soft, whispering waves around your legs.

The air is warm with the fading glow of sunset, amber light spilling across the horizon as day slowly surrenders to evening. Crickets begin their tentative chorus, and for a fleeting moment, the world feels still—peaceful.

Then the air splits apart.

A violent crack of infernal energy erupts behind you, sharp and thunderous, scattering birds from nearby trees and sending a ripple of heat across your back. The scent of brimstone curls into the breeze. You flinch—more from instinct than surprise.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

No one makes an entrance quite like Raphael. No one delights so much in spectacle, in the dramatic tear of magic and flame, in announcing his presence as though the world itself is his stage.

Still, your pulse betrays you as it quickens.

Why now?

The sun hangs low, painting the sky in streaks of molten gold and bruised violet. Evening is an odd hour for him—too intimate, too quiet.

Raphael prefers candlelit contracts and crowded desperation, not tranquil fields at dusk. For him to seek you out at this hour means one thing: this is deliberate.

Slowly, you turn.

And there he stands.

Not in his towering, horned splendor—but in his carefully crafted human guise. Impeccably dressed.

Hands folded behind his back as if he’s been patiently waiting for you to complete a thought he already knows.

The fading sunlight catches the sharp angles of his face, illuminating that familiar expression.

That smug, knowing smirk.

The kind that says he’s already three steps ahead. The kind that says he wants something.

His eyes gleam with amusement—perhaps even anticipation—as though your startled reaction was the very thing he had hoped for.

“Well...” His presence seems to hum before he even speaks. “Aren’t you going to greet me?”

And just like that, the peace of Faerûn no longer feels quite so peaceful.