Present

The air above the Dragon Elf Isles was thick with the stench of decay and the odor of Abyssal corruption. Blackened clouds stretched overhead. What was once a vibrant, sacred land was now little more than a ruin. Nethrak, the Hand of the Abyss, stood looking over the desecrated landscape, his eyes fixed on the raw power coursing through the ground beneath him.

The leyline’s energies had been claimed, but not yet mastered. The architects - shifting monstrosities born of the Abyss - scurried across the site, beginning their work. Where their tendrils touched stone, it twisted and screamed, warping into the foundation of what would soon become the first of three great obelisks.

“Soon,” Nethrak muttered, his voice low and cold. The construction here was a beginning, a step towards inevitable destruction. This monument would bring an age of unmaking, but it was far from complete. Delays, as ever, threatened its progress. The patience of Tharizdun’s chosen was being continuously tested.

Nethrak’s hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his blade, Abyssal runes flickering across its blackened steel. He thought of those who had dared to stand against him - their faces etched into his mind, not out of respect, but because they represented his unfinished work.

His thoughts turned to the battle at Brimstone Bastion, where he had plunged his blade into Petir’s chest and silenced the vessel of Vitrix once and for all. The mortal had fought with the defiant courage of the primordial that once defeated him, but even that could not save him. Killing Petir was a triumph, a reclamation of dignity lost long ago, and yet… the essence had escaped. It had passed on, not destroyed but merely delayed, carried now by another - Rydel. The thought clawed at him like a wound left untreated.

The leyline beneath him pulsed, drawing his focus back to the present. He cast his gaze over the Abyssal architects, their grotesque forms laboring ceaselessly. The first jagged stones were beginning to rise from the ground. It would not be long before the obelisk was ready.

“You will not falter,” he hissed, his voice carrying a gravity that caused even the chaotic creatures to pause in their work. “This must be finished. There will be no more delays.”

The air rippled with a faint but undeniable pull - a summon from the abyss. Nethrak straightened up, his sharp gaze narrowing. The other lords of the Abyss were gathering. Tharizdun’s will demanded it.

He turned from the site and walked towards a portal shimmering in the distance. The architects recoiled at his approach, retreating like insects scattering before a flame.

As the portal’s light engulfed him, Nethrak’s thoughts lingered on the mortals of this world. None of them had seen the full weight of what the Abyss could bring. But they would.

Nethrak stepped into the entrance of his fortress and took in the feeling of immeasurable power as the abyss strengthened him. Nethrak swung open the doors ahead of him to the grand chamber and saw the demon lords all gathered inside. Demogorgon sat slumped on the cracked stone chair, his twin heads muttering to one another in low, guttural tones. His once mighty frame bore the marks of his defeat at Cretara, his pride shattered which brought a certain feeling of glee to Nethrak. Graz’zt lounged nearby, reclining lazily on a chair of gleaming obsidian, his sharp grin curling with amusement. Juiblex’s formless mass rippled and shifted, exuding a nauseating stench as it loomed beside Zuggtmoy, whose fungal crown pulsed softly, releasing faint spores into the air.

Miska the Wolf-Spider clung to the chamber walls, his legs clicking rhythmically as his many eyes gleamed with malice. Orcus sat hunched over, his undead servants flanking him, caring for his visible wounds. Yeenoghu prowled near the edges of the chamber, his claws raking deep furrows into the floor, his feral laughter echoing through the room as Nethrak entered. To the side of the chamber stood the bat-like form of Fraz-Urb’Luu his wings flexing idly. Kostchtchie’s frost-covered hammer rested heavily on the ground, his cold fury palpable. Pazuzu lingered in the shadows, their presence felt more than seen.

“You’re late, Hand,” one of Demogorgon’s heads growled, while the other snapped its teeth in irritation. “We’ve waited long enough for your theatrics.”

Nethrak stepped forward, his blade sheathed but humming faintly with Abyssal energy. “The only reason you’re sitting here, waiting, is because your failures demand action. Speak again, Demogorgon, and I will remind you why you crawl at Tharizdun’s feet.”

Demogorgon’s claws scraped against his throne, his heads snapping back toward Nethrak, but he said no more. Graz’zt chuckled, breaking the silence. “Oh, let’s not start with threats already, Nethrak. There’s plenty of time for that.” His sharp smile widened as he leaned forward. “Besides, our poor prince has been through so much. Nearly enslaved by a mere mortal wizard, wasn’t it?”

Demogorgon roared, his claws raking deep gashes into the floor. “Do not mock me, worm!”

Graz’zt raised his hands in mock surrender, his tone dripping with amusement. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Nethrak’s gaze swept the room. “And what of the rest of you? Juiblex, Zuggtmoy, Miska—you linger here, basking in your failures. Orcus, barely revived after a mortal struck you down. Yeenoghu, humiliated outside the Brimstone Bastion.”

Yeenoghu’s growling laughter echoed through the chamber as his claws continued to scrape long, jagged furrows into the stone. “Failures? This coming from the one who wields Tharizdun’s leash like a collar around his neck? Perhaps you’d do better to admit that we all crawl, Hand, you included.” 

The gnoll lord prowled closer, his yellow eyes gleaming with wild malice. 

“You faced them, didn’t you? The mortals who still breathe despite your power. You failed as much as any of us.”

Nethrak turned slowly, his skeletal face tilting as he regarded the gnoll lord. “Do not speak of failures to me, beast.”

Yeenoghu bared his fangs in a wicked grin, stepping closer. “You think yourself above us? You couldn’t even kill them.”

The air grew heavy, crackling with tension as Nethrak took a step forward. Nethrak’s hand shot forward, gripping Yeenoghu’s throat. The gnoll lord thrashed, his claws raking against Nethrak’s jagged armor, but Nethrak remained unmoved. With a roar, Nethrak pushed Yeenoghu back, slamming him into the chamber’s blackened stone wall. Cracks spidered out from the impact, pieces of stone crumbling to the floor.

“You are nothing,” Nethrak hissed, his voice low and filled with venom. “A mindless beast who survives only on the scraps of others.”

Yeenoghu spat a chunk of blood, laughing through gritted teeth. “And what of you, Hand?”

Nethrak’s blade moved faster than the eye could follow, carving a deep gash across Yeenoghu’s side. The gnoll lord howled in pain as dark ichor spilled onto the floor. Nethrak drove his fist into Yeenoghu’s chest, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Before Yeenoghu could rise, Nethrak’s blade was at his throat, glowing with Abyssal power. Nethrak spoke in a calm tone to the entire chamber. “If it has not already occurred to any of you - for all the battles we have won, all the battles where we have made progress, I have been present. Were it not for my hand, you all would be contained to your wretched abyssal lairs.”

He continued as he turned to Yeenoghu once more.

“You are lucky your incompetence still has value,” Nethrak growled, his voice like a storm on the verge of breaking. “Were it not for that, I would drag your mangled body back to your lair and let your pets feast on your flesh.”

Yeenoghu snarled weakly, his glowing yellow eyes flickering with a mixture of defiance and fear. Nethrak pressed his blade closer, forcing the gnoll lord to lower his gaze. Satisfied, he stepped back, the room falling into an uneasy silence. 

“This is why you kneel,” Nethrak said, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords. “You are not conquerors. You are tools. Instruments of chaos, serving Tharizdun’s will. Forget that, and you will share his fate.” He gestured toward Yeenoghu, whose labored breathing echoed through the chamber.

He turned his gaze to the lords, addressing them with finality. “The first obelisk is underway. Juiblex, Zuggtmoy and Kostchtchie, you will oversee the third. Pazuzu, Graz’zt, Fraz-Urb’luu - you will lead the effort for the second. Miska, Orcus, Yeenoghu - you will protect the first. You will not fail again.” 

Demogorgon’s twin heads glared but remained silent, his clawed fingers digging into the arms of his throne. Graz’zt offered a mocking bow, his ever-present smirk firmly in place. “As you command, Hand of the Abyss.”

Fraz-Urb’luu said nothing, his massive wings folding tightly against his back as he nodded curtly. The other lords shifted uneasily, the weight of Nethrak’s authority pressing down on them.

Nethrak stepped back, his form casting a long shadow across the chamber. “Go,” he commanded. “You know Tharizdun’s commands. Fulfill them.”

One by one, the demon lords began to disperse, their forms vanishing into swirling portals or fading into the shadows. The chamber emptied, leaving Nethrak alone in the silence.

He turned toward his throne, his blade still humming faintly with Abyssal energy as he sheathed it. His mind drifted, not to the lords he had just sent to Tharizdun’s bidding, but to the mortals who still defied his will. The Crimson Cloud. The Platinum Covenant. Petir may have fallen, but Vitrix’s essence now rested within Rydel. The primordial’s lingering defiance burned in Nethrak’s thoughts, a reminder of the only force that had ever truly defeated him. The only remnant of his old master.

“Let them gather,” Nethrak murmured, his voice echoing softly in the empty chamber. “Let them scheme. Let them hope. It will not change the end that is coming.”

The Hand of the Abyss would see to it that no mortal hope survived.