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RIFTPULSIVE
A flicker or carmine light drifts about the misty air of the old Ridgeshield road, leaking from the mouth of the cave like blood from a terrible, festering wound. Inside, amidst the reddened haze that billows about the stalagmites, stalk all manner of unspeakable and nightmarish creatures. Some walk, others fly, a few crawl and creep about, but perhaps the worst are those who move unseen.
One such creature lurks behind a bloodied rock formation, watching a pair of vrocks as they test how long they can prolong the painful screams of the foolish bandit that decided to investigate the cavern. The creatures screech with glee as they enjoy each moment of the mortals suffering before wandering off to pursue their next gruesome whim as the screams are finally silenced.
The tiefling slips from beyond the outcrop to investigate the bloody scene, stepping carefully as to avoid the growing pools of still warm blood.
"Help me..."
A shattered voice draws the tiefling's sanguine eyes downwards to the dying ruffian, looking rather impressed that anyone, or anything for that matter, could survive the torments he had just witnessed. The man's head falls and his eyes begin to fade as he begins the descent into death.
The fiendish creature leans down and looks over the expansive array of cuts, breaks, and other unspeakable wounds that litter the man's dying form before channeling forth a rush of abyssal energy into the man. The crimson tendrils of energy seep into the wounds, scarring them over and finally ceasing the torrents of blood. The tiefling rises and saunters back down into the red mists as the bewildered bandit's eyes flicker open while the fell energies reinvigorate him.
The tiefling soon approaches the pair of vicious vrocks, still maddened by the fresh blood that drips from their beaks and claws. They pause a moment, having seen this creature before, and remembering the fell blade he wields that has silenced other lesser demons who had tested him in the past.
Rhandum grins to the two twisted, vulture-like monstrosities while gesturing back towards the entrance where the man would likely just now be gaining enough strength to flee.
"You still have a guest to entertain..."
His grin fades for but a moment as he pictures the scene replaying itself should the man not escape the pair of abyssal nightmares that now rush back towards him.
He was not always like this, no there are fleeting memories of a more pragmatic voice that once tempered the tiefling's wild whims, but alas whatever that may have been has long since been ripped away and consumed by the Rift. He may walk among men and mer, and speak with honeyed words, but there are those who see him for what he truely is. Some embrace this, finding value in having an ally of the Abyss, but others hunt him.
His thoughts turn to the Iron City and their agents. They know what he is, and likely what he seeks to accomplish via the powers of his blood...
A terrible scream issues forth from the direction of the vrocks and breaks his flow of thought. The tiefling spares only a passing glance back towards the horrendous cacophony of wailing and screeching before grinning.
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RIFTMEMBRANCE
The smell of the brackish waters of the southern coast mix the thick air of the tainted lands, intertwining together to concoct a rather unique scent; a smell all too familiar to the ravenous bandits and demons who stalk these misty roads in the dead of night. A new scent soon wanders in, hiding in the already prominent notes of decay and corruption, hardly noticed by those dreadful things that call this land their own.
The tiefling lounges lazily within the branches of a desiccated tree, a clawed finger tracing random patterns upon the tainted bark as his sanguine eyes reflect the flickering campfires from the fort that looms in the mists beyond. Each day the walls grow a bit taller and the fires ever so brighter. More soldiers, adventurers, and mages come to and fro. Some are familiar to the fiend, others are strangers still, nonetheless they all seem to have common ground in seeing the demonic entities that plague this land banished. Perhaps he is troubled by this? Perhaps not? He ponders this until his eyes lock on the charred and tattered banner that still adorns the old walls of the fort. It is a faded thing, ravaged by time and scorn alike, but he knows that unyielding red anywhere...
...
A spray of black blood coats a banner of the same ominous red as the hulking abomination twitches and crumples over, gripping the sharp blade that now grows from its chest. It is a terrible thing, the spawn of an orc and some unspeakable terror from the lower planes, a thing of crooked claws and razor-like teeth with a temper to match. The Red Wizards called them many things, but today they call this particular one a failure. Another creature darts wildly about the same bloodied pit, a smaller thing sporting a pair of short horns and flicking tail. The bald men mutter between themselves from beyond the magical veil as they appraise the young tiefling below. Random chance is what they finally agree to credit the outcome of the contest to.
One of the red-robed men sneers to his peers and drifts down from the overlook, floating into the pit on some unseen force conjured forth by the strange incantation he was muttering. As he lands softly in the bloodstained dirt and filth, the creature bounds behind the still-twitching body, drawing the short sword forth with another spray of blood before leaping at the new intruder in a wild fury. The sinister man smiles, making a lighting fast gesticulation of his hand while speaking the tangled words of another spell that brings the lunging fiendling to an abrupt halt.
The red robes flutter as the wizard steps closer, examining the constrained tiefling before giving a devious smile. He gives the creature's horned head a condescending pat and reminds him that this is but random chance indeed before nodding to the other sinister bald men. The tiefling sees the mage drift back towards the overlook and feels the paralyzing hold on his body give away just as two more of the snarling orcish demons are prodded into the pit. He grips the bloody blade and crouches into a fighting stance as the two hulking monstrosities charge.
Random chance will have to work.
...
The piquant smells of Ridgeshield bring the tiefling's wandering mind back to the matter at hand. He has taken note that these new residents have also taken their fight to the devils who also stalk this land on occasion, the same who have recently taken to stalking him across the far reaches of the isle. He has in that moment a wild idea as sanguine eyes spy a trio of figures emerging from the fort.
Rhandum slides down the tired tree with a fiendish grin and saunters towards them...
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RIFTRIBUTION
"Damned Devils"
The fiend's hulking form thuds to the ground, scorching the grassy field where the two denizens of the lower planes came to a head. Dozens of dark-shafted infernal arrows grow from the abyssal form of the demon as the erinyes quickly utters forth an infernal curse of binding. The lurid lines of the curse trace over the fiend as the abyss rises to reclaim the flame-wreathed body of the defeated demon.
"Damned Devils"
Rhandum falls. Falls for what seems an eternity, past all manner of inconceivable manifestations of fear, death, depravity, and worse; all the while the infernal lines of the curse trace their way over his bloodied form. The axiomatic symbols and lines flare and sizzle as they flow over his broken body, burning shallow grooves in their wake as they carve the devil's binding sigil into the fiend's very flesh.
"Damned Devils"
The reddened mists of the Abyss soon envelop the fiend as he finally falls onto the scorching stone of his home plane. The familiar chattering and wailing of the demonic host that wanders this realm greets him as he awakens and looks about the endless wastes. He wanders, or rather runs for his life, for days, maybe even weeks, or at least what feels like such. After all, one tends to lose track of such things in the such an ever changing and relentless realm as this.
With time the infernal mark's power fades as the Abyss itself, and nearly every demon in it, claw, bite, tear and rake at the cursed fiend as he makes his way towards the nearest rift.
The stone crackles with arcs of volatile energy of the vile plane from whence it festers. Rhandum hears the screeching of the hungry vrocks and hulking hezrou as they rush towards him in a demoniac frenzy that would likely prove his end should this fail; nevertheless he waits and watches, waiting for that evasive moment where the energies of the Rift would lash through realities themselves.
Then it happens! The ravenous demons lunge towards the fiendling with tooth and claw right as he leaps through the arc of violent energy.
~R~
The flaring light bathes the dark cave in a flash of carmine light as the fiend is torn across planar boundaries within the corruptive energy. His battered form sails from the crackling stone, landing amidst the dust and dirt of the cave rather inelegantly. The residual lines that lace across his form burn in deviance as he stands, threatening to drag his near broken form back to the abyss. He wastes no time in stumbling from the rift-tainted cavern into the night.
The accursed infernal lines burned deeply as the fiend finally finds the sullen elf he had sought; one rather intimate with the nature of curses.
"A favor is indeed an investment, let's hope it pays off hmm?"
This elf certainly held no love for the denizens of Baator either, and agreed to dissipate the infernal curse. Nothing is ever free of course, but what better offer than retribution?
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RIFTSPLENDENT
It was beautiful.
Well, perhaps not in the traditional sense. No. It was more akin to the bone-chilling vista of an approaching storm; the violent sort whom could herald only doom, misery, and want.
Nevertheless, the tiefling's own gaze simply could not look away.
He sees it creep forward from the darkened confines of the doomed woods, a slithering blight that billows forth into the nascent light of the peaceful morning. The very air itself flees in the wake of malevolent entity, contorting into a chaotic maelstrom of crackling and humming ether as the sinister waves of corrupted energy lash out.
The envenomed voice crawls about the fiend, clawing its way into his mind. It sings to him, roiling the tainted blood that flows through his dark heart into a frenzy that he cannot help but sway along to.
Soon there is screaming. The wails are hardly time nor key with the enticing whispers that guide his own blade into the elf's back, but it makes for a fine song nonetheless!
More come to dance along to the insidious song of the Rift. They have voices. Terrible voices! He hears them speak. Some pray, others yell, but it hardly matters; words cannot undo what has begun.
Now they have blades. Bows. Arrows. Something else? Ah a spell! How clever indeed! It twists the fiend's lithe form into a fantastic shape! A painful shape. The ground takes him.
Shining water from the man's holy vessel burns. Burns deeply; into the very shreds of his wilted soul itself, but the Rift still sings. It whispers, and Rhandum listens...
~R~
Shadows creep over the fiend. Wispy tendrils in the dark that envelop this strange interloper. They wind about, stirring the misplaced fiend awake. Sanguine eyes flicker open as he sits up, staring into the bleak abyss of the shadowy terrain. A mote of confusion darts across his eyes as he struggles to grasp the departing visions of the rather violent vistas that race through his foggy mind.
The visions drift outwards into the shadowy expanse, leaving the bewildered tiefling with but an all-too familiar rhythm thudding throughout his psyche...
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RIFTSTRAINT
Blackened clouds of billowing smoke rise from the spreading riftfire at the gates of Hamley as the last of the rift abominations are finally felled by the bloodied defenders. The survivors quickly begin to drag their wounded and dying into the burning gates before more of the tainted creatures roil forth from the growing shadows that steadily creep forth from the northern roads.
One fiendish shadow lingers yet, high upon a cliff overlooking the chaotic scene playing out below. Sanguine eyes take in the lingering lamentations of the fallen, an encore to the cacophony of madness and death that had recently fell upon the wholesome hamlet. The wailing and shrieking of the rift shadows may have been silenced by the soldiers and their celestial benefactors, but the pain and fear echoed throughout the rolling hills, reverberating within the wide eyes of those sullen defenders who now carry their fallen and defiled kinsmen away.
The fiend remains perched upon the overlook as the still warm blood of those below drips from his tattered coat and malevolent riftblade. His own blood trickles from several lacerations littered across himself, sizzling violently as it intermingles with the celestial blood it makes contact with. The fiend's eyes look to the bodies scattered about the gates, each one flaring back to life as a fleeting, distant memory. He remembers each scream, each splash of warm blood, every painful shout and curse, but nothing else. Only the...
Ba-dum...Ba-dum...
Something far more sinister than his own thoughts slithers into his cracked will, coercing him to slide down the cliff and stalk towards the wounded and dying. He thinks not of the masses of reinforcements that rally to the gates, no. Only of the fading lamentations of the fallen and how he shall dance amidst them until they finally fade away into oblivion.
A chill wind blows, cooling the blood-soaked fiend. Sanguine eyes blink once, then twice, as his own instincts drive the maddening whispers away. He sees the vengeful soldiers yelling, charging towards him, their holy brands raised high in the blackened smoke that rises from their fallen kinsmen.
The drow's words reverberate in Rhandum's psyche as he comes to his senses and vanishes into shadow.
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RIFTCREATION
If there was anything in the known planes and countless worlds across existence that knew how to have fun: it was certainly a demon. In fact one of the worst torments to these twisted and depraved creatures was not pain or death, but abject tedium. The humdrum of life. Days passing on and on in neat little lines, casting shadows of dull grey boredom across the land. It was torture really, and demons are acquainted with torture well enough to know that they'd rather witness or administer it rather than be subjected to it!
One such creature has nearly forgotten the concept of tedium as his sanguine eyes survey the raging battle at the now material gates of the Iron City. Watching the uptight devils and their dreary knights scramble about in the growing chaos of the siege had been a rather fantastic display to behold. He watches the missiles hurled by the massive siege engines sailing through the smoke-filled air, following the flaming orb until it lands in the midst of a rallying group of soldiers. They writhe and scramble out of the spreading flames in all directions. No orderly lines here. Only chaos and death. Both now slither through their ranks. Perhaps soon it may even wiggle itself into their remarkably stubborn minds.
The only thing better than watching the scurrying hellknights has to be the bloody display of warfare being orchestrated by the Empyrean soldiers and their celestial host. The fiend's eyes glimmer with glee as he watches the minds of holy soldiers slowly fill with the terrible vistas that outright war brings. Of course they may tell themselves that they fight the good fight; that they stand unerringly in the face of outright evil, each one ready to put it down once in for all, just like their Celestial benefactors would desire. Unfortunately the mind of man is far from the otherworldly dogma that these creatures manifest.
These men who take to the field are just that: Men. Men who kill other men in the most savage and brutal melee the fiend has yet to have the privilege of viewing since the muddy battles that filled Crater Lake with blood. These men may defeat the forces before them, but the demon that lurks in the shadowy woods beyond then mainlines of the ravaged field knows that not all evil is flesh and blood.
The mortal minds of those who fight for their holy cause collect a new nightmare with each swing of their blessed blade. A terrible memory painted in the warm blood of those they butcher. A new terror that will haunt them til the end of their days. Will they be able to pray that away?
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RIFTCLAMATION
To be a demon is to take. To take and give no thoughts back upon the matter. Such manifests in a myriad of terrible, twisted ways for various demons. Some kill and overpower all in their maddened paths while others may scheme and break each link of resistance bit by bit. Others coerce and deal, not so differently from their infernal cousins, but in the end it all boils down to taking. Deprivation followed by acquisition, with ample chaos, madness and pain closely in tow.
Some scholars of esoteric lore may contemplate existence of demonic hierarchies. Surely such things exist? The darkest pages of history often tell of hordes of such creatures flooding over the various planes of existence, leaving fire, death and chaos in their wake. It is somewhat sensible to imagine some manner of demonic overlord pulling the strings, but can such a thing ever truly exist? Perhaps none of these scholars have ever bothered to ask a demon themselves.
Such a creature would agree that there is a hierarchy, one of madness, depravity, cunning and guile. Of blood, tooth, claw and malice. Of tricks and deals, and double-crossing. Of desperation. Of raw power. Such a creature would ramble on and on upon such matters, or perhaps it would not. More likely it would grow bored and move on to the more important and pressing matter of devouring, dismembering, or otherwise defiling the bold interviewer without another parting thought. Perhaps this is the real reason scholars remain hesitant to delve into such dark and dangerous subjects.
Regardless of what eminent scholar or devious demon thinks, the stark reality remains. A demon must take. Power in the Abyss is never given. It may at times be invested, or even lent to another, but such an arrangement always is to the benefit of the one who held the power, never to the one endowed (or in some cases cursed) with the power.
---
Deep within the roiling chaos of that demonic plane paces a lone figure. The fiend's feet crunch over the brittle, glassy rock of the crag that overlooks the stormy, reddened layer as a storm of liquid fire brews in the distance. He thinks of all he has taken in his days. All the blood, pain, and conflict of the wars. Each and every scream and final gasps of life of those whose life was taken by his hand during the bloody battles of the Kinswar and Great War manifest once again within the evil air that swirls around his steps. They seep through his carmine flesh and crawl within his very bones, chilling him to the core even as the very sky itself rains liquid fire and blasts him with oppressive waves of heat. It is a feeling like no other, something that would drive a human mind to the very brink of madness, if not completely over the precipice. Yet even as the manifested evil creeps through his being, it is not the screams, the pain, or the death that drive him mad. These were taken. They are, and forever will be a part of him. No, it is only when they squirm their way into the scars that crisscross his body and the cracks in his bones do they cause true torment. Each scar flares white hot, and he feels the Kreisian captain's acrid bolts tearing into sinew again, or the holy brand of the empyrean heroine flaying him with searing divinity, or the dark shafts of infernal arrows as they bristled from his broken form. The vile darkness delves deeper, clutching at his blackend heart like the crackling magic that scored his very core as the energy blasted himself and Halla into oblivion in the drifting snows oh so long ago.
Each of these pains were given. Forced upon the fiend, and that which is given to a demon is one of the few things that ever can truly hurt a demon. The screaming darkness digs deeper, filling him like water in a drowning man's lungs as he looks towards the crag that leads deeper into the Abyss, into the frozen wastes where the demonic palace lies.
Rhandum has told himself he is free, free since the day he delved into the abyss and sought a way to break the chains that had bound him. But can he be sure? After all, was his freedom not given as well? Given by one who yet lounges upon that towering throne of contorted souls in World Eater's stead? Red'effenys may tell him that he only helped the poor tiefling break free from his Thayan masters on that fateful day. That he believed no demon should be within the bondage of the lesser ilk that dwell on the material. That he was doing the tiefling a favor, but Rhandum has learned much since those days. Much more on what it truly means to be a demon. He has learned that a demon must take.
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RIFTSEARCH
It had been some time since the dark garbed fiend had visited the crumbling splendor that was the City of Elisara. He moves about shadowy forests that surround the bastion of elvenkind like a second wall. He can almost feel their keen eyes catching sight of him as he slips from tree to tree, from rock to rock, through the bubbling streams and finally over the worn wall itself.
They were tired. Long had they fought the shades of their past, and only now they were finally afforded some degree of rest. Of peace. It was just the opportunity that the fiend needed.
The shadowy figure seeps through the streets, not to bring a torturous end to the resting soldiers, or to the weary citizens, or even the despised celestial himself. No this time the shadow slips into of all places, the library.
It is a grand housing. The arched ceilings are adorned with various motifs of the pinnacle of elven art and decor. Works that evoke to mind the greatness of their people. Their legends. Their heroes. None of these things interest the fiendish visitor this night. No, he seeks a different sort of elven history. The sort which most elves would rather not be reminded of.
Soon the pair of carmine hands find the tome. Blackend claws run along the ancient volume's spine as he slowly deciphers the strange elven script. It was a language he had somewhat neglected. He knew the basics: "Die Fiend!"or "Help! No! Why!?", or his personal favorite: "I shall cast thee back to the festering pit that spawned you demon!". More elegant phrases seemed to elude him for the most part, but with time he is able to sort through the characters of the elegant, aged script...
Elder Navanthevian's Compendium of Lore and Legend. An Abridged Series
....Abridged? The fiend hefts the thing, nearly losing his balance as it slides off the ironwood shelf like a stone from a quarry. He mutters something in regards to elves having too much time on their hands as he flips through the hefty tome.
GOBLINS: THE LEGEND OF GAR-LOC'S GOLDEN GAMBIT...
GNOLLS: THE SAGA OF THE LAUGHING CURSE....
PIXIES: THE GREAT SLEEP DUSTING OF THE MANTICORE PRINCE...
The tielfing's tail flicks along with each flipped page as he searches the titles, finally halting before the entry he had sought.
DROW: THE BINDING OF ALK-KANDARK
This was it. He had heard the name in the Abyss, muttered in the dark words of other demons as they threatened and demeaned their kin. To be "Bound as Terrible Alk-Kandark was" seemed to be among the highest tier of demonic insults, though the tiefling never understood why. Sanguine eyes float over the complicated elven script that tells the tale, soon glazing over as the flower like script begins to tangle itself together.
He'd need a translator.
A flicker of light invades the dark hall, glinting off the gold leafed pages of the hefty tome as it draws near. A thin elf scuffles down the worn steps, brandishing a small lantern towards the fiend's location. Golden light flows over the horns and flicking tail and the old elf pales as the strange man's reddened eyes rise to meet his own.
"You'll do."
The fiend slams the book shut and rises as malevolent grin forms across his face. A flood of shadow bathes over the pair, drowning the lantern's light and the elf's scream into oblivion, leaving the library quiet and empty yet again...
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RIFTSEARCH II
"You want me to do what?"
The bewildered elf looks to the wild-eyed tiefling before scanning the seemingly endless expanse of shadowy terrain for any avenue of escape.
"Read me this story. That is all"
The fiend settles down on a shadowy stump in the otherwise bleak expanse of pseudo reality that is the Plane of Shadow. He draws forth a roll of reddened parchment and a dirty, sulfurous quill and begins to scrawl wildly upon it before looking back to the confused elf.
"Well?"
Rhandum waves the sordid quill at the elf then points it to the two birdlike creatures that stand at the elf's side. The elf's eyes lower to the open tome beside him, then to the pair of vrocks that flank him on either side, each seeming a bit less restrained with each passing moment...
"Fine."
The old elf reads the excerpt, there in the darkness between worlds, and the demons listen. It was an intriguing tale. No doubt exaggerated, but are not all legends and tall tales based upon some degree of fact? Rhandum certainly hopes so.
---
The elf gives a weary sigh as the tale comes to an end and looks back to the pair of vulture like demons, then to the intrigued looking fiend slouched upon the stump.
"Very interesting..."
Sanguine eyes lock on the elf as the carmine hands give a wave, gesturing towards the endless expanse of shadows.
"You may go."
The elf pauses and looks around.
"Where?"
The tielfling simply smiles and saunters towards the elf stopping before him to then rip the pages of the story from their home within the tome.
"I don't care...but Vrocks are rather fast. Trust me. Best get going hmm?"
The elf gives a nod and flees into the inky darkness. He runs fast, far faster than his old self seemed capable of. So fast he didn't even notice the shadows that followed after him. There are not many ways worse than meeting your end at the hands of demons, but the living darkness that stalks this particular plane certainly is a contender.
Rhandum rolls the pages of the old legend into the rift tainted parchment he had been scribbling upon. He does not have to wander far to find one of her scouts. The missive is carefully bound to the shadowy spider that will no doubt find its way back to its master, with the following message:
Dearest Kallista,
I've found a bit of lore that I think you may find quite intriguing, even if it does seek magnify the feeble "expertise" of one of your kin's "Hapless Males" if I recall the general term. Regardless, the story speaks for itself as to why I am interested in it. My only question is if you are up to testing the validity of a legend with me?
Demonically Yours,
Rhan
Wrapped within the tainted letter are several pages. Pages that that seem to have been torn from a book. Pages written in an elegant elven script....
DROW: THE BINDING OF ALK-KANDARK
Author's Disclaimer: The Drow are a cursed race. One that still suffer the punishment for their ways even to this day. A treacherous, vile, and unspeakable evil lurks within their dark hearts. It is with great reluctance that I, Navanthevian, include this particular Drow legend within this volume. Know that it is included solely for academic perusal and should not be considered a definitive means to bind demonic entities.
----
There was once in distant history a Drow named Phaeloch. Perhaps this Drow had a surname or even a house, but drow history pays little heed to the accomplishments, let alone names of their lowly males. This is not a legend of a drow per say, but of the potential of what the powers of the Spider Queen are capable of, regardless of the hands they are made use by.
This is a tale of how the demon Alk-Kandark: Scourge of the 665th layer. Defiler of the seven celestial names. Razer of a Temple of Lolth herself was brought low and bound by the unspeakable powers of the Abyss.
Phaeloch was there when the demon brought ruin upon his city, and more specifically, the temple itself. He even took some measure of glee in watching the terrible demon rend the clergy and and handmaidens asunder. This was at least until the demon turned its attention back towards the city and those fleeing about it. As the Defiler rampaged through the remnants of the fleeing drow, the mage spied within the ruins of the temple something remarkable. Something dark. Something of Lolth herself. A thick strand of web taken from the depths of the Demonweb Pits themselves! He could not imagine then what the priestesses had been using the web for, but he knew that such a thing contained power. Raw power. Power of the Abyss.
It was on this fateful day (or perhaps night) that a lowly male, Phaeloch, wrested the arcane energies of the darkest depth of the Weave to bind with the darkness of the Demonweb, thus empowering his own magic with that of the Abyss itself.
Legend tells that the spell of binding, once corrupted by the abyssal energies within the strand, bound the demon. Bound him to the Demonweb Pits themselves, where he still is said to linger on to this very day, tortured and mocked by all for his entrapment.
In the coming days, mages and scholars of all races would argue over the best methods in which to bind a demon: using celestial chains forged in the Elysian Fields, or cold iron of the Feywild blessed by a dying archdruid, or maybe even infernal chains linked by devious devils. Few would mention turning the power of the Abyss back on its own creation.
Perhaps this is what happened on that dark day?
Or perhaps this is but an exaggeration fabricated in desperation by the downtrodden males of that accursed race?
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RIFTBUKE
Names are important to a demon.
Not in the sense that one should know what to call another to preserve one's manners and decorum; these things mean little, if anything, to a demon. No, knowledge of a name is a key; one that opens the door to the life of the one who claims the name for themselves. Is this true? A name may tell you of one's lineage or even where they live. Were they named for a hero? A legend? Is it an elven name? What of titles?
Why? Why is this word, of all words, the word for this being?
Many of the mortal races seem to think little of such things before forcing a bland, meaningless moniker upon their newborns. These creatures walk the world under the name given to them. Some may stain it with darkness while others choose illuminate it with righteousness, others yet may abandon it to be forever lost in their tortured pasts. Some names even survive the one they once were tied to, only to be written down in books and tomes to slowly fade away quietly in the passing of time. But in the end names often remain just that: a name.
Such is not the case for a demon.
A demon may go by many such "names", but his real name, his true name, is never uttered. To reveal such would bring a swift end, or even worse, enslavement without end, upon his demonic being. Such creatures guard these things closely, for it alone may prove their true downfall.
Sages and scholars alike may debate the esoteric details of such a thing, some may even suggest that a being, regardless of how cruel it may be or how fiendish it may appear, cannot profess itself a true demon without a true name.
So. How does such a creature discover their true name?
The same wizened scholars may dote upon the many theories regarding such, none ultimately agreeing on any conclusive explanation as to where, or why things even have true names, much less upon how one may obtain or discover one.
But this is rather simple to a demon.
For to be a demon is to take.
---
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Rhandum keeps a wary eye upon the shadowy door of the gloomy tavern. It is a reflection of the well-known Trade and Tackle, one that manifests within the swirling mists of the Plane of Shadow. It is here the shadows of those who come and go upon the Material are also manifested. Some walk about in a drunken stupor, others sit and speak to one another in seemingly abject silence. More than one enters carrying the dripping shadows of hearts of some creature to one particular shadow who seems to dwell within the structure. Sanguine eyes follow each shade, half expecting one to draw forth a holy brand and finish what they had started.
The fiend looks back to the chittering mass of spiders as they busy themselves with enveloping the dying drowess in a protective cocoon. Even now he sees her blood stain the webs, much like it had within the depths of the Demonweb Pits not so terribly long ago. It was an arduous trip. One that proved a considerable drain upon the pair. They had found what he needed within the depths, but at what cost? The tests of Lolth had demanded a steep price; a price Kallista had paid. Nevertheless, they had found what the tiefling had sought: A strand of Demonweb, one empowered by the lamenting souls trapped within the dark expanses of Lolth's domain, one that would serve as the perfect focus for the binding.
Now they needed a place to be safe to recover from the ordeals of the Demonweb. He left her there at those shadowy crossroads between worlds feeling she would be safe there in the darkness surrounded by her brood of spiders. The shadowy inn had proven to serve as such in the past, yet when he returned it became apparent that this was no longer the case.
He was able to keep the thin flickers of life that lingered within the drow alight long enough for the rest of her surviving spider brood that were spread about the plane to find their way back to their wounded mother. She was hardly able to speak of who was responsible and less of what happened. Each word was cold and ragged, each syllable drenched in pain and spite. Nevertheless, she spoke enough.
[ The Island of Thain ]
Riftflections