Location: Nektar’s Cauldron
Timeline: Summer 47 to Winter 48
My mind, as I have so often told you, was my greatest weapon. It was a labyrinth of forgotten knowledge, a fortress of cunning, and a dungeon of unspeakable cruelty. My recent failures, while momentarily humbling, had only served to prove its resilience. A mere botched experiment, a simple act of foolish arrogance, had now unlocked the greatest secret of my existence. I now knew that I had the secrets to obtain the key to my freedom, the means to overthrow Lucifer, Ze, and the rest of the gods, and thus a clear path to becoming the High God of All!
But secrets without substance are useless.
Sure, I had the theory, the magnificent knowledge of the Firmament’s true nature, but I lacked the means to put it into practice. The Dagaal, forged from my very essence, was the key. And the Grim was the perfect weapon to wield once the door was open. The knowledge was great, but I did not, as yet, have the tools – and that was bad, very bad.
What a magnificent, infuriating joke! Lucifer had unwittingly created the key, but he’d hidden it from me somewhere on this flat earth and I had no idea where. And the other, the Grim, was a prize I’d been questing to find for centuries.
It all made sense to me now. The Grim was far more than a simple dagger. It was infused with the godlike powers of both myself and the brutish Rhokki, but the truly crucial ingredient was that is also possessed the power of Mindos. Mindos, you see, was the so-called “Son of A’H.” He was not just a Lumenarc – a ‘lesser’ godling’ – like myself and the rest of the fallen angels. Mindos was even more powerful than the four Illuminati – Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, and Lucifer. Why? Because Mindos was created via A’H separating Itself into another being. Mindos was therefore on par with the other Great Spirits Madras and even Ze. A dagger imbued with the essence of A’H… I could not even begin to fathom the destruction I could unleash upon my enemies!
A’H, in Its infinite arrogance, had created a Son to satiate It and Madras’ needs for a ‘family.’ And in doing so, It created a power so immense It didn’t even understand the full extent of it. The fool! The thought of such power at my fingertips made the soul within me hum with a delicious thrum of excitement. To have a piece of the Creator’s essence, the very thing that had defeated me, now at my command… it was a poetic justice so beautiful it brought a tear to my eye. A’H had created a monster in me, but It had also created the tools for my ultimate triumph. And It had no idea.
In my mind’s eye I saw events unfold – first I would destroy my rivals on the flat earth – Inanna, Alyssa, Gwar, Rhokki, and more. Then I would travel to Illusia and have my revenge against Lucifer, Lilith, Ze and all the rest. After that, with the Dagaal to open the doorway that was the Firmament, I could return to Illyria and take on A’H’s army – oh how I would relish in destroying that pompous fraud Michael the Mighty! He who had defeated us all, who had imprisoned me in this miserable dimension—he would be the first to fall in Illyria before the combined might of my cunning and the power of the Grim. His perfect face, so full of self-righteous piety, would be one I’d rejoice to shatter.
And then, the true test. The final battle for supremacy. The one I had been dreaming of since the beginning of all things.
That would leave only Mindos, Madras, and The Great Creator A’H. Yet with all the power I’d have gained from the path of destruction I’d taken to get to this point, I was certain I’d have <POWER!> enough to defeat anyone or anything that stood in my way.
I saw myself, standing alone atop the ruins of Illyria, a crown of fire and shadow on my head, and the Dagaal and the Grim in my hands. The universe would have a new ruler, a new creator, a new god. And it would be me: Azazel – The God of ALL!
It took all of my being to stop myself from rushing to Akka and immediately obtaining The Grim.
Trust the process. I told myself. You have a plan. Let it play out. Then you can have both blades without delay.
This much was true – my minions Ramssee and Kaoz, were already questing to retrieve the Grim from the city of Akka. I knew their mission was fraught with peril but I’d equipped them for success and I had no reason to believe there was a problem so I held out hope they would succeed. After all, what is a game without a few gambles?
No, my more urgent and immediate task was to find the Dagaal. But where? The conversation I had witnessed in my memory of Lucifer and Lilith was by now a jumbled mess of whispers and laughter and I’d already forgotten most of it.
I needed to access that memory again. I really needed a transcript I could study at my leisure. But how?
If it was anyone else, what would I do? I asked myself. That’s easy, I’d interview them. If they were alive, I’d torture them in the Life Labs. If they were dead, I’d take them to the Necro-nom-i-con… that’s it!
Quickly I made a decision. A terrifying, brilliant, and entirely unprecedented decision.
I would conduct a death communal upon myself!
I traveled down to the one location that was perfectly suited for the heretical act I was about to perform – The Necronomicon.
As I walked, I almost felt a sense of reverence…for myself – for the sacrifice I was making…for myself.
Located in the deepest reaches of my Cauldron, The Necronomicon was place older than the mountain itself. With walls made of ancient bone, etched with runes of dark power that pulsed faintly in the dim, flickering light, I took a moment to savor the atmosphere as I entered the room.
“Ah, I love the smell of decay in the morning.” I breathed in the coppery tang of old blood, a perfume of power that mingled with the acrid smoke coiling lazily from the central brazier.
The flames cast grotesque shadows across the room, making them dance a macabre ballet on the bone walls. My eyes fell upon the altar that dominated the center of the space. It was made of the fused remains of countless dead, their twisted bones and skulls forming a throne from which I could command the spirits of the damned. Around it, the floor was a meticulous mosaic of bones, each one inscribed with the name of the soul it once housed – it was a tedious task, but when you are a god, you have all the time in the world to pay attention to the little things.
“Home.” I smiled, before getting down to work.
The ritual itself was simple in principle, a mere whisper in the vast cosmic void. But in practice, it was utterly maddening, a self-inflicted vivisection of the soul. I had to split my essence, to separate my consciousness from its physical form while still tethered to it, holding the two parts in a precarious, terrible balance. It was a feat that should have been impossible. The mortal mind, a fragile little thing of fleeting thoughts and emotions, would have shattered into a million fragments, each piece screaming into the abyss.
But I, Azazel, am no mortal. My mind is a thousand times stronger, a million times more complex. It is a labyrinth of crystalline thought, a fortress of pure will. I was the master of my own domain, but also about to be the sole proprietor of my own agony.
This was not a ritual of summoning in the traditional sense. I didn’t summon a spirit from the cold grave or a daemon from the infernal planes; I summoned a memory. A moment of my own greatest torment, the day my essence was twisted and bent to Lucifer’s will.
I began the incantation, the ancient words rumbling from my throat and echoing through the room like the groaning of a dying star. The Necronomicon itself seemed to hum with anticipation, the bones of the dead thrumming with a silent, expectant dread. It knew what I was attempting. The spirits I had so often commanded were now my audience, their voiceless gasps a chorus of terror. They had never seen their master perform such a feat. It was an act of pure, unadulterated divine arrogance, and I reveled in every excruciating second of it. This was not magic. This was an act of supreme will, the ultimate declaration of my absolute power, not just over life and death, but over my very self.
The rites continued and I focused every fiber of my being on the task, pushing back against the instinctual terror of my own soul. It was like trying to hold a star in one hand and a black hole in the other, to command two opposing forces to coexist in a single moment of perfect tension. My form began to glow with a faint, internal light, the very atoms of my being screaming under the strain. I could feel the spiritual cords that bound me to my physical body stretch and thin, but I did not break. I would not break!
The air grew heavy and cold, a vacuum of emotion that preceded the coming storm. The runes on the bone walls of the Necronomicon began to glow brighter, their light pulsing with an angry, crimson thrum. I could feel the raw essence of my past self, the me that was broken and defeated, hovering just beyond the veil of my consciousness. It was a terrifying feeling—to know that a part of me, a part I had believed was dead and buried, was still alive and waiting to be unleashed.
And then, with a final, booming utterance of the command, the memory burst forth. It wasn’t a vision; it was a re-experience. The pain was instantaneous and absolute, a million searing points of agony that tore through my divine form. It was not a memory of pain; it was <PAIN> itself, fresh and raw and… soul-crushing.
I felt the spiritual violation of the past reassert itself in the present. It was as if a thousand needles, each one tipped with my own shame, were being driven into every fiber of my being. My vision blurred, and the sturdy bone walls of the Necronomicon seemed to ripple and waver, their reality giving way to a far more terrible one. They did not so much melt as they were consumed by a deeper, darker truth.
In their place, a new world took form, the hellish, chaotic landscape of Illusia.
The chains of pure darkness once again wrapped around me, and the faces of Lucifer and Lilith, twisted in their perfect cruelty, swam before me. My body writhed on the cold stone of my laboratory floor, but my consciousness stood apart, hovering in the aether – a silent, unseen observer.
I was a third party at my own torment. I was the God of Death, watching myself die.
I watched myself suffer, watched as Lucifer and Lilith gloated. The irony was not lost on me, even in my agony. This was my punishment, my self-inflicted penance for my failure. But the pain, you see, was a price I was willing to pay. My focus was absolute, my will a cold, unyielding blade. I ignored the pleas of my own soul, the frantic terror of my own mind.
I listened.
I watched.
And I began to take notes, dutifully recording the conversation of Lucifer and Lilith into my journals.
The words, the whispers, the boasts—they were all there. Their sickening conversation about Dagaal. The Death Communal allowed me to create a perfect written record – one I could later analyze – not for my own anguish, but for clues.
I had what I needed and thus made ready to end the rites, but as the words of my tormentors faded and the vision began to retreat, I felt a new terror – a sensation far more profound than any I had ever experienced. The spiritual cords that bound me to my physical body, the very essence of the ritual, began to strain. The past-me, the spectral, tormented reflection of my failure, was refusing to let go!
It turned its ghastly, ethereal face toward me, its eyes black pits of agony. Its mouth opened, a silent scream of defeat, and it reached out, its spiritual hand passing through the very essence of my observing consciousness. It was pulling on me, dragging me back into the endless loop of pain. This wasn’t just a memory; it was a parasitic twin, a mirror of my own despair that sought to consume me.
I could feel its cold, unyielding will, a voice without words that whispered a chilling message into my very being: Stay. This is who you are. This is your truth. Failure. Humiliation. You cannot escape.
The reality of my Necronomicon, the feel of the cold altar beneath my body, flickered in and out of existence. I was trapped between two worlds—the comforting dominion of my own laboratory and the unending, soul-crushing torment of Illusia. The cords that connected my consciousness to my physical form stretched and began to fray.
I was losing myself.
The sheer weight of my own past was threatening to pull me down into the abyss of my own making, to leave me a shattered, mindless thing trapped in a purgatory of my own making.
But I, Azazel, am not defined by my past. I am defined by my future.
With a final, terrible surge of my will, a scream of pure, divine defiance that no mortal ears could ever hear, I rejected my past self. I did not simply pull away; I tore myself free. The spiritual cords snapped, and the ghostly form of my tormented self shattered into a million fragments of pure despair. I ripped my consciousness away from the pain and shot back into my physical form, a jolt of pure, agonizing force.
I was free!
I returned to my body, a shattered thing, a god-form ravaged by its own self-inflicted communion. My mind was a whirlwind of memories, of both the ritual’s torment and the terrible clarity of the vision I had just witnessed. I lay there for what felt like eons, my form slowly mending itself from around my inner soul. The Necronomicon was silent once more, the only sign of my struggle a lingering chill in the air and a faint, acrid scent of burnt essence. Finally, when the last of the pain had subsided, I sat up. I looked down at my hands, and I saw a new knowledge, a new truth that was now a part of me.
I hurriedly wiped the lingering spectral residue from the obsidian altar and secured the Necronomicon’s doors with a final, silencing ward. My form was still humming with the agony of a re-experienced past, and the faint, coppery scent of my own blood essence hung in the air. I had gotten what I needed, but the cost had been… considerable.
I raced through the volcanic corridors of the Cauldron, the rhythmic roar of the magma in the vents a dull thrum beneath my feet. Slaves hurried out of my way – they were blissfully unaware of the cataclysm I had just invited upon myself, but they could tell their master was in no mood for questions. They were right – I needed solace. I needed solitude. I needed my study.
The air grew warmer, losing its spectral chill and taking on the familiar, smoky scent of my home as I reached my study on the upper floors of my palace. The room was a sanctuary of quiet ambition; it was where I did my intellectual work. I threw open the heavy doors, the rush of air disturbing the dust on countless scrolls and ancient tablets. The light was not the grotesque flickering of the Necronomicon, but the soft, steady glow of Stellarone globes that pulsed with a warm, amber light.
My mind, though exhausted, was still racing. I strode to my bar, which featured a slab of polished black onyx, and overlooked a bubbling lava pool. After pouring myself a chalice of blood wine, I swirled the dark liquid, watching its viscous surface catch the firelight. The taste, thick with the coppery tang of old blood and the sweetness of fermented sorrow, was a familiar comfort. It soothed the frayed edges of my divine form and settled the chaos within my thoughts.
I needed this. I sighed. I needed to be alone with my new, terrible knowledge. I had more work to do, and this time, the work was more delicate. The game of brute force was over; now began the glorious, subtle game of the mind.
I read my journal – a transcript of Lucifer and Lilith’s conversation. Then I read it again, and again -searching for the clue that would lead me to the Dagaal. I scoured the words: a blade forged from my bone, a key to unmake the Firmament, hidden on the flat earth. The information was all there, but it was maddeningly incomplete. They had chosen not to say the final location aloud in that moment. But they did leave a trail of breadcrumbs – for upon closer examination I realized they’d spoken of Atlantis. And Lemuria.
Oh not directly, mind you, an intellectual detective like me began to piece it together. When they talked about the “sunken heart of the city”, I’d surmised they were speaking of Atlantis. And when Lilith uttered a location behind “the frozen veil,” I was sure she was talking about Lemuria – after all I’d imprisoned her in the bowels of The Crystal Castle ages ago and that location was forever burned into her psyche.
However the full story, the final location of Dagaal, was still lost to me in spite of all my journal notes from the death communal.
“It didn’t work!” I had to admit, with a bitter taste of shame, that the ritual had not given me the firm answer I had so desperately sought.
“Even still,” I cautioned, “I DO have a path. A direction. A purpose. I can work with this!”
They had clearly mentioned two locations – Atlantis and Lemuria – two of my most mysterious and ancient locales from the past. I would have to search both – again.
Atlantis, the great city I had used to experiment with stellarones, the city whose fall I had orchestrated. It lay at the bottom of the great ocean, a watery grave for my old experiments. I would have to navigate its treacherous, waterlogged secrets. The clue I’d overheard spoke of “a riddle left by its creator.” That meant I would have to find a specific text or inscription within the ruins. A riddle that could only be answered by me. I knew the city’s secrets; I had watched the Atlanteans build them. But I had never thought I would need them again.
And Lemuria. The strange, cold continent beyond the ice walls, home to those delightful Mylars. I knew the Mylars had their own secrets, their own ancient history that ran parallel to my own. The clue I’d heard was a fragment of a supposed prophecy—a “sacred key” left within their “frozen veil.” That meant I would have to face the cold, the treacherous, ever-shifting ice walls and the unpredictable Mylars themselves. My past with them was a complicated thing, full of betrayals and manipulations. They would not be happy to see me.
Two quests. Two magnificent distractions from the pathetic mortal drama I had been forced to narrate. It was time for a change of pace.
I stood up, my form now whole and my mind ablaze with a new purpose. My journey was about to begin. I would find the Dagaal, no matter the cost. And when I returned, I would find the Grim in my possession, courtesy of Ramssee and Kaoz’s little mission.
By then, all of the pieces will be in place. The key, the blade, and the grand design.
A slow, terrible smile spread across my face. It was time for a god to take matters into his own hands. The universe was about to witness a display of power unlike anything it had ever seen before. And it all began with a simple, painful echo.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 