Part XIII: The Cradle of Despair
Chapter 6: Home Sweet Home
Timeline AO 314 to AO 318
I awoke with a start, my sweating robes clinching to my sickly bones, my heartless chest pounding beyond control as if it sought to escape the torment I had just endured. The dim, flickering light of the fireplace barely penetrated the oppressive gloom that surrounded me. My hands trembled as I wiped my face, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare—or was it something more?
My bed, a massive, cold slab of obsidian, was draped in furs taken from beasts of the abyss. I was roasting beneath them but still too tired to rise.
And an entire year passed this way.
When I awoke I caught a glimpse of myself in the polished black surface of the wall—my reflection like a specter staring back. My form, once angelic, had long since twisted into something more sinister, more fitting for the path I had chosen. The bones of my skull were a sickly grey black color. My eyes, once bright with the fire of rebellion, were now hollow pits of darkness, reflecting nothing but the void within. Beside the bed lay one of my robes – now naught but a tattered cloak of shadow and it looked much like I felt.
My mind wandered – The rebellion, the dark creations, the endless scheming? What was the point of it all anymore? It seemed now that I was merely a ghost haunting the ruins of my own ambitions.
I know what you’re thinking – What about Hacktor and his war? I’ll be honest with you, back then I was a mess. True, I’d always fashioned myself as THE A #1 godling of Terra – the straw that stirred the drink, so to speak – and as such I’d always had lots of irons in the fire to further the many plans that were part of my overall agenda – to become The Ruler of All Three Planes of The Universe. But after that ordeal in The Garden I’d forgotten about pretty much everything – including Hacktor.
Laying in that forsaken bed I let out a low growl of frustration, the sound echoing through the chamber like a beast trapped in a cage. The memories of the Cradle of Despair and that horrible Womb where I’d lost a decade of my life still gnawed at the edges of my mind, the voices of the forgotten dreams of all those souls I’d tortured whispering incessantly in my ears. They had become my entire existence and I knew I needed to silence them, to push them out, but how?
Rolling over on my side I noticed the shadows lurking around the room – they were like old friends. Then I remembered that the walls of my bedroom were etched with familiar runes that pulsed faintly, remnants of incantations long forgotten. And beneath it all there was the low, ever-present hum resonated from the magic of my wall, a sound that was both comforting and disquieting – the lullaby of the damned. It helped – a bit.
“Ach! Enough.” I threw off the heavy blankets and rose from the bed, my body aching as if I had been physically beaten. The Cauldron’s oppressive heat didn’t provide me any relief but it was a familiar discomfort and one that grounded me in the present. “I need to focus, to push the nightmare from my mind.”
And yet I was still so unsure.
Had I really traveled to the Cradle of Despair, unlocking the Womb of Forgotten Dreams? I wondered. Or was it all a twisted dream concocted by my own mind, tormented by centuries of failure and relentless ambition?
The memories were too vivid to dismiss, yet too surreal to fully accept. The voices, the agony, the suffocating despair—I could still feel them clinging to me like a second skin, their cries echoing in my skull. But now, back in the familiar confines of the Cauldron, it all seemed so distant, so unreal.
“Damn it all to Illusia!” I cursed, my voice raw with frustration. What does it all mean? Was the Cradle a mere illusion, a trick of my own mind, or something more? Had Gabriel truly guided me, or was he just another figment of my own desperation?
When I was in The Cradle – IF I had really been there – the lines between reality and fantasy had blurred, twisting together in a cruel mockery of my efforts. But was it really any different from my past failures? How many times had I ventured down similar paths, only to be led astray by shadows and false promises?
My hand clenched into a fist, the sharp pain in my palm grounding me further to reality. I had been too consumed by the mysteries of the past, by the need to unravel the secrets hidden in the Cradle.
“But no more.” I averred as I grabbed my robe from the floor and threw it on. “It’s time to take my mind off riddles that have no answer. It’s time to do something fun!”
Although my movements were slow and deliberate, I made my way with purpose to the entrance of my chamber. The Cauldron awaited me—a labyrinthine fortress carved into the heart of an ancient, inactive volcano. It was a place of fire and stone, of darkness and despair, a fitting throne for one such as I.
As I stepped into the corridor, the air grew warmer still, the heat of the magma rivers deep below seeping through the walls. The Cauldron was alive with the sounds of crackling fires, distant screams, the low murmur of dark magic, and now with Death as well.
For months, I wandered the halls of my palace, my presence sending waves of terror through the Derkka slaves who scurried to and fro, tending to the never ending needs of the fortress. Their goblin fear was a palpable thing, a sweet perfume that clung to the air – and I reveled in it.
As I passed, they would drop whatever they were holding, falling to their knees, trembling as they averted their eyes from my gaze – hoping beyond hope that I might spare them from the horrors of having their souls harvested. Sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t. But always I took a perverse delight in their terror, slowing my pace just to savor the moment, allowing the dread to build until it was nearly unbearable. Then, without warning, I would lunge at one, my claw like fingers extended, sometimes stopping just short of tearing into their flesh, sometimes going ‘all the way.’ The sight of their contorted faces, the sound of their whimpers, filled me with a dark joy that, however fleeting, was a welcome distraction.
One particularly amusing encounter occurred in AO 315 when I cornered a group of goblins in the storage chamber. These Derkka had been loading barrels of blood wine, the thick, dark liquid sloshing ominously as they tried to avoid my gaze. I pretended not to notice them at first, then, with a swift motion, sent a barrel crashing to the ground, its contents splattering across the stone floor like a pool of freshly spilled blood. The goblins yelped and scrambled to clean up the mess, their frantic efforts only making it worse. I watched with a grin as they slipped and slid in the sticky liquid, their pitiful cries echoing off the walls. It was such a ridiculous sight that I couldn’t help but laugh, a sound that came out more like a dry, raspy cackle.
Naturally I killed them all for the blunders, and then, after harvesting their souls, I finished by licking up every last drop of the blood-wine. [Hey, it was a good vintage that year and just too good to waste].
But even this amusement was not enough to keep the despair at bay. The memories of the Womb of Forgotten Dreams continued to haunt me, whether it was something I’d actually experienced or all just a dream didn’t matter. To me it was real enough and I could hear the stellarones’ voices growing louder with each passing day – haunting me.
“It’s not fair!” I raged. “I’m The God of Death. I’m the one who’s suppossed to do the haunting!”
At times like these, I found myself back in my boudoir, often unable to rise from my bed, the weight of my failures pressing down on me like a physical burden. I lay there in the darkness, my thoughts churning, trying to make sense of it all.
Had I truly glimpsed something beyond my understanding? Had I been punished for my defiance, cast out of the Cradle to wander the earth once more, lost and aimless?
For a month or more, I did nothing but dwell in this torment, slipping further into the madness that lurked at the edges of my mind. Once, when I tried to get up, I only ended up lashing out in anger, destroying my chamber in a fit of rage, shattering the polished black walls and reducing the furs to tattered rags.
Yet that violence brought no relief, only a momentary release of the fury that burned within me. But once the destruction was done, I was left with nothing but the hollow echo of my own screams.
In a desperate attempt to regain control, I turned my attention to the fields of Gor. It was the year AO 316 and new blood wine harvest was in full swing, and I found some solace in the familiar routine. I walked through the rows of twisted victims, their blackened ‘roots’ sinking deep into the soil as their bodies decayed, whilst their blood fermented. The goblins who were lucky enough to toil in the fields worked tirelessly, cutting off parts of their unlucky friends who’d become ‘the crop,’ and then and collecting the blood-red juice that flowed from their veins. I watched as the liquid was funneled into barrels, thick and viscous, like the lifeblood of Terra from which they first came.
“The smell is intoxicating,” I trailed my hands lazily along the ‘vines’ of a row of the forsaken. It was a heady mix of iron and decay, and for a moment, I allowed myself to be lost in the process, to forget the weight of my own failures.
But such solace didn’t last.
The voices of all my tortured stellarones returned, whispering their accusations, their tormenting cries echoing in my mind. It was then that I knew I could not escape them. The Cradle, the Womb—whether they were real or not didn’t matter – either way the memory had left a mark on me, one that I could not erase.
I needed to reclaim my purpose, to remind myself of the power I still held. So I returned to the Cauldron.
When I got back my mind was clearer. Even though the despair still lingered like a shadow at the edge of my thoughts, I knew I couldn’t allow myself to be consumed by it. There was still work to be done, still plans to be executed. If the Cradle and the Womb had denied me, then I would turn to other means, right?
I wasn’t sure how I would do it, but I vowed to do better, to get my mojo back.
Unfortunately I failed.
For most of AO 317 I’d wandered the depths of the Cauldron in despair, my bare feet scraping the stone passage with slow aimless steps. Eventually I came upon a chamber I hadn’t visited in years. It had long been sealed—I vaguely remembered it as a room filled with relics of the past, artifacts of forgotten battles and lost souls.
“Well, I’ve got nothing better to do.” I said in my boredom. With a wave of my hand, I shattered the seals, the ancient magic dissipating like smoke.
The stale air heavy with the scent of dust and decay as I stepped inside. For whatever reason it caused me to get incredibly angry – like REALLY ANGRY!
My emotions quickly escalating I let it all out – my anger, my frustration, my despair. I wanted to tear this stupid room apart, reduce it to rubble, just as I had done with my own mind.
The destruction was swift, brutal, and satisfying. I unleashed my full power, tearing through the ancient walls, reducing the relics to dust. I could feel the magic coursing through me, a storm of raw energy that crackled and sparked, setting the air ablaze. But even this was not enough.
“I need more!” I wailed. “I need to feel pain, to feel suffering, to know that I’m still alive, still capable of inflicting my will upon the world!”
Racing away from the destruction, I ran until I found a group of Derkka slaves—goblins who had served me for who knows how long, their minds broken, their bodies twisted by my magic. They were little more than shells now, obedient and mindless, their only purpose to serve me.
“But I will give you all one last purpose.” I smiled a creepy smile even for me as I herded them along with me. “I’ll make you an offering to my rage, a sacrifice to the darkness that had taken root within me.”
Like the good little rats they were the didn’t resist. When I found an open torture chamber I giddily chained them to the walls – only then did they realize what was going to happen. But it was too late.
Their cries of terror and confusion began to fill the chamber as I prepared my tools. The tortures I devised were cruel and inventive, designed to break both body and spirit. I could see the fear in their eyes as I began, the sharp instruments of pain glinting in the dim light. The first cut was always the deepest, the shock of it enough to send them into convulsions.
I worked methodically, with precision, carving into their flesh, drawing out their suffering with a practiced hand. Their screams were sweet music to my ears, a symphony of agony that resonated deep within me.
If you must know the pain I inflicted was a reflection of my own, a way to externalize the torment that had consumed me. Normally it helped me.
Yet not this time.
“Alas! It’s not working.” I muttered. Even as I worked, I could feel the emptiness growing, the futility of it all sinking in. I was not a god; I was a shadow, a remnant of something that had once been great but was now fading into obscurity. Still, I forged ahead, hoping that if I kept going I’d find that which I sought.
As the last of the goblins lay broken at my feet, I looked around at the devastation I had wrought. The chamber was unrecognizable, a ruin of shattered stone and twisted metal. But it had done nothing to ease the pain, nothing to fill the void that gnawed at my soul. I’d tried to forget, to bury the memories of the Cradle and the Womb, but they remained, a constant reminder of my failure.
“What do you want from me?” I cursed Gabriel, I cursed A’H, and I cursed all of creation as I collapsed onto the cold stone floor, my strength finally leaving me.
The rage that had fueled me burned out, leaving only the hollow echo of my own despair. I lay there for what felt like hours, days, but perhaps it was only minutes. Time had lost its meaning in this place – as had everything else.
But then, in the utter depths of my despair, a thought began to form.
Dagaal. That weapon made from my own anatomy – perhaps it could tip the scales of power in my favor? Had Lucifer really created it or was it another power – a higher power – that had forged the blade? Regardless of the mystery, one thing was certain – I had wasted enough time chasing ghosts and shadows, seeking answers in forgotten realms that only led to more questions.
The Cradle, the Womb, Gabriel—it’s all irrelevant now. What matters is MY purpose, MY mission! If I could not find Dagaal through the Cradle or the Crypt, then I would forge my own path. I would carve it out of the bones of those who stood in my way, and I would wield my own power to reclaim what was mine.
I pushed myself up from the floor, my resolve hardening with each passing second. The stellarones voices that had tormented me began to fade, replaced by a singular focus, a clarity of purpose that I had not felt in a long while. And then I remember something…
“Hacktor!” I shouted. “Yes, I will turn my attention back to Hacktor and his war. Surely it’s still going on, right? The bloodshed, the chaos, the raw, untapped energy of it all—it’ll be mine to control, to harness! And from there The Necronomicon will provide the answers. I’ll get Dagaal yet and none will be the wiser!”
I was confident that Hacktor had not yet wiped out The Derkka (there were just too many of them), nor that he had given up (it wasn’t in his nature), therefore I knew The War of the Ghast must have continued whilst I was out of it.
Even still, before I could do anything with Hacktor, I knew I needed to reclaim my strength, to remind myself of the power I still possessed. Thankfully The Cauldron was more than just a fortress; it was a crucible of dark magic, a place where the very essence of the flat earth I’d created with Lucifer could be shaped and molded. I would immerse myself in its power, draw from the depths of the volcano itself, and reignite the flames of my own ambition.
I rose to my feet, my cloak of shadow billowing around me as I strode through the ruined chamber. The air crackled with energy as I summoned the dark magic that flowed through the veins of the Cauldron, channeling it into my very being. The walls shuddered and groaned as the power surged, filling me with a renewed sense of purpose.
I made my way through the winding corridors of the Cauldron, the ancient stone walls bearing witness to countless ages of darkness and despair. The halls were lined with torches that flickered with an eerie green flame, casting long shadows that danced and twisted as I passed. The goblins, sensing the shift in my demeanor, scurried out of my path, their fear palpable in the air. I paid them no mind; they were insignificant, mere tools to be used and discarded.
My thoughts kept returning to Hacktor, reminding myself of the intricacies of my plans. His war was in full swing – a storm of violence and death that was engulfing the land. And at the center of it all was still Hacktor, my pawn. I would turn my focus back to Hacktor, guiding him from the shadows, shaping his destiny to suit my own needs.
By now it was near to the end of AO 318 and I’d spent the months immersing myself in various magical books in my library – their pages filled with arcane symbols and forbidden knowledge. The words seemed to shift and writhe as I read them, the magic within them alive, pulsating with a dark energy that resonated with my own. The rituals described were intricate, requiring precise ingredients and a deep understanding of the forces at play. But I relished the challenge, the thrill of unraveling the mysteries contained within.
As I worked, the Cauldron itself seemed to come alive, the walls humming with power, the air thick with the scent of sulfur and brimstone. With my power returning I knew the pieces of my plan were falling into place, the game was about to begin again. My enemies had tried to attack my mind and bring me down, but they had failed! And this time, I would make them pay for I would not fail!
Yet I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of doubt. The memories of the Cradle, the voices of the Womb, still lingered at the edges of my mind, whispering their accusations, their warnings. Had I truly escaped them? Or were they still there, waiting for the moment when I would falter, when I would once again be drawn into their grasp?
“No!” I shook my head, banishing the thoughts. “I am Azazel, the Lord of the Cauldron, the Reaper of Souls. I’ve faced greater challenges than these and emerged victorious.”
I would not be deterred, not by doubts, not by fears, not by anything. I had survived the test. I was still here. The time for hesitation was over. The time for action had begun!
I would finally turn my attention back to Hacktor, to the war that was surely consuming the land. And when the time was right, I would strike, claiming the power that was rightfully mine.
And the world would tremble at my feet…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 