Deep beneath the Well of Sins there existed a labyrinthine network of catacombs and tunnels that was simply referred to as the Necropolis. Throughout the Necropolis’ long, winding hallways, legions of animated skeletons gave rise to a ceaseless symphony of the damned. The rasp of bone against stone filled the air with a mournful melody that was punctuated by the uneven percussion of pickaxes clawing new paths through the solid rock.
But the undead were not the sole workforce toiling away beneath the City of Lies. The sickly green glow of unholy braziers lining the rough-hewn corridors illuminated the twisted and misshapen shapes of demons that slaved away alongside the undead host. Some of the abominations were lean and spindly with leathery skin the color of rusting steel. These gaunt creatures bore a passing resemblance to a bipedal human save for the glaring lack of a head. To make up for this anatomical oversight, a wide, slaving maw had been placed across the center of their emaciated chest. Like starving hounds, the withered demons loped their way up and down the tunnels, devouring any loose stone they came across in a desperate need to sate their irrepressible hunger. These Famine Horrors, like many of the other demons present in the Necropolis, had been designed from the ground up to further Balerik’s master plan.
There were also large, bulbous creatures covered in pustules and sores. They were born from the bursting boils of their demonic kindred and rapidly grew to a size too large to traverse the halls of the Necropolis. Called Blightsmiths, these demons worked the Necropolis’ smithery beneath the lashing whips of marilith taskmasters. The mariliths possessed a long, serpentine tail that sprung from the waist of a six-armed woman with a warrior’s physique. The crack of the whips they carried ensured that the Blightsmiths’ hammers were never idle. Working without rest, the bloated demons folded their own corrupted essence into the darksteel weapons they forged.
The weapons created in the bowels of the Necropolis were only a small part of the work performed beneath the Well of Sins. Alchemy labs were scattered throughout the complex, each one working toward world-ending plagues. Arcane laboratories served as a proving ground for a different kind of weapon, the spells they engineered ranging from cataclysmic destruction to temporal manipulation.
At the center of it all was Ancev, The [Ur-Priest].
The de facto leader of Balerik’s forces, Ancev rarely left his inner sanctum in the heart of the Necropolis. The chamber that served as the complex’s beating heart was a small, intimate affair lit by the dancing green flames of the braziers placed along the wall. A single polished table of obsidian sat in the center of the round room, its broad surface cluttered with scroll cases and sheets of parchment. A large set of double doors served as the room’s only entrance. Against the opposite wall sat a black altar dedicated to his evil god.
There wasn’t a single chair in the room. This was not an accident or an oversight.
The reason for this is that Ancev is little more than a bleached-white skull with a set of glittering jewels in place of teeth. The ur-priest had long since shed his mortal coil and the shackles of the flesh. He did not need to eat, sleep, or even breathe.
Which left him free to spend an eternity working for his Archdemon.
Unfortunately for the evil cleric, that work generally consisted of mind-numbing bureaucracy.
“The Evil Gods and Demons Council has reviewed your requisition form for additional manpower.” Ancev’s floating skull bobbed lazily in the air while its jawbone opened and closed to mimic the motion of human speech. The ur-priest’s voice possessed a haunting echo as if his words were rattling their way down the metaphysical tunnel that connected life and death. “The council believes that attacking this castle does not possess enough strategic value to justify further resource investment at this time.”
“That castle is the preeminent fortress in the entire world.” One of them said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice for what must be a skeleton. The creature wore light blue armor sculpted into a remarkably flattering physique. A darker blue cowl was draped over the yellow skull that sat upon its broad shoulders. A ram’s head staff, that looked ostentatious to Ancev’s discerning eye, completed the image of an evil wizard that was trying far too hard to garner attention.
“Be that as it may,” Ancev replied coolly, “we have no interest in bankrolling this…passion project of yours.”
Ancev’s hands, one skeletal and the other a blackened limb of mummified flesh, pointedly rustled the papers in the petitioner’s requisition form while the two across the table glowered in frustration.
“But the Orb of Power resides in the castle!” The skeleton’s zombie servant exclaimed, waving his arms as if Ancev wouldn’t be able to hear the idiot shout from five feet away. The speaker was a curious zombie/golem hybrid with a jaw like a bear trap and a strange mechanical arm that looked highly unstable.
Ancev was certain that his current zombie schematic was superior in every way.
“The Orb holds all the ultimate power of creation,” the square-headed zombie said. “If we could take control of it, we could rule the world.”
Ancev’s skull bobbed in the air as it turned to regard the strange zombie that seemed to have an over-inflated sense of self-importance. The ur-priest leveled the weight of its mismatched eyes upon the servant. One of Ancev’s eye sockets was empty save for a tiny red flame while the other held a golden eye with a pupil slit like a cat’s.
“That certainly makes it valuable,” Ancev conceded while the odd servant wilted beneath his gaze. “It also makes it the three thousand, four hundred, and sixty-second item of infinite power that has been brought to my attention. Nine hundred and two of which are already in our possession.”
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“Fine,” the skeleton in the blue armor said curtly, interrupting its servant with a swing of the ram-headed staff in its hand. “We’ll conquer the planet on our own. When we do, I’ll proclaim myself! King of the entire world!”
Inexplicably, the strange skeleton tipped its head back and laughed maniacally. A heartbeat later, the mechanized zombie beside him joined with a gruff, self-satisfied chuckle.
Ancev did not laugh.
“Ahem.” The ur-priest noisily cleared its nonexistent throat. “My Lord Balerik is always happy to welcome new sovereigns into the fold. Just be certain that you introduce the appropriate tax charters and labor laws. Will there be anything else?”
Thankfully, there was not, and the two evildoers left, already deep in a discussion about how they intended to defeat some feathered sorceress.
Ancev’s hands were already reaching toward the next scroll on his desk when the broad doors across the room swung shut. The ur-priest would have sighed in relief if he still had lungs to breathe. He settled for moving the day’s agenda forward instead.
“Who’s next on the list?” Ancev’s haunting voice rose into the seemingly empty room. On cue, a half dozen specters materialized from thin air. Each of the ghostly figures appeared to be wearing crisp-fitting business attire.
The six ghosts replied in unison, their voices blending like a choir of the damned. “The gentleman with the eye, your eminence.”
Ancev’s jaw dropped as the air vibrated with a groan that would have slain any living creature in earshot. “I told him that I’d make him a new ring. It’s a damned ring of invisibility. They give those away as bingo prizes at Polly’s on Thursday nights.”
One of the ethereal figures ducked its head in supplication. “Apparently this particular ring has sentimental value.”
The demilich seemed to consider the words for several moments before waving the matter away with a sweep of his mummified hand. “Very well. I’ll authorize three more armies of orcs. But no more!”
“As you command, your eminence.” The cadre of ghosts bowed in unison.
“Wait,” Ancev said, his skeletal hand floating toward his skull to tap one fleshless fingertip against the jewels that served as his teeth. “Give him the battering ram that Bigby was working on. Maybe he’ll be able to do something with the unwieldy thing.”
The murmur of acknowledgment that rose from the ghost council sounded like the wind whispering through a desecrated church.
A moment later, the ghosts informed the ur-priest of his next appointment. “Lady Belial is next on the agenda. Her visit is regarding the-”
“Oh! Send her in, send her in!” Ancev’s levitating skull bobbed excitedly in the air while his hands rubbed together in a display of child-like eagerness. How many centuries had they invested in this plan? How many cosmic strings had the Archhdemon and his minions pulled?
And now, finally, after all the schemes and all the manipulations, the culmination of their plan had arrived in The Hub.
It was enough to make Ancev wish he still had a heart just so he could feel the quickening of his pulse.
The double doors across the room swung open to admit Lady Belial. The voluptuous dark elf had long hair the color of newly fallen snow and enchanting red eyes that glimmered like uncut rubies. Her hips swayed sensuously as she sashayed toward the room’s central table, a smile scrawled alluringly across her blue-painted lips. The [Archpriestess] was accustomed to being the center of attention and it showed in her every swaying step.
Ancev would have yawned if he hadn’t been worried that the sound might slay her.
“Tell me of the young man,” Ancev demanded. The drow’s rhythmic steps faltered for a fluttering heartbeat as a look of confusion. “His wounds are merely the superficial variety, correct?”
Belial came to a stop on the opposite side of the table, her hands clasped demurely against her stomach. “I haven’t had the chance to evaluate him, your eminence. I felt it was best to report to you immediately when he returned.”
“From now on, debrief me after you have seen to young Dalthan’s well-being.” The [Ur-Priest] didn’t bother trying to hide the frustration that vibrated through his eerie tone. “That man is your only priority until I tell you otherwise, Belial.”
“Now,” Ancev continued, his floating skull flitting about like a macabre hummingbird, “how many milestones should we award him as a bonus? I’m thinking he’ll need at least a hundred. Is that too small?” The demilich’s voice trailed off as the ancient evil mused to itself. “Too small. He’ll need a thousand to get properly set up.”
It was a strange sight to see a dark elf grow pale with worry. Especially one as confident as the [Archpriestess]. “With respect, your eminence,” Belial began, her normally self-assured voice possessing a note of hesitation. “I wonder if it wouldn’t be best to let the man grow accustomed to life here before he’s granted such a boon. He has shown himself to be quite erratic. Investing that kind of power into him could have dangerous ramifications.”
The floating skull suddenly stopped. With a slow, inexorable moment, Ancev turned to pin the fidgeting priestess with his mismatched gaze. Long moments passed while he decided if he should disintegrate her where she stood.
In the end, the logistical headache of trying to replace Dalthan’s liaison outweighed the momentary satisfaction he’d feel from obliterating Belial for ruining his mood.
“Fine. We’ll normalize his progression.” Ancev vented his annoyance by lacing his next words with enough arcane weight to send Belial sinking to her knees. “For now.”
“Your eminence,” Belial began, as she shakily rose to her feet once more. “I could more easily discern your desires if I knew why this young man is so important.”
“He just seems so very,” the priestess paused, visibly searching for the right word, “inconsequential.”
“Hmm…” Ancev considered the priestess’ question like a dragon deciding if it would part with a piece of its hoard. “No, I don’t believe I’ll share that information just yet, little Bel.”
“What I will say,” the undead monster continued, “Is that in the entire city, there are only two beings that our Lord Archdemon is personally interested in.”
“One of them is me.”
“The other is Dalthan Sol’Magor.”