The nightmares agonized Moggotheddon, forcing him to relive all the horrors of the past. The memories came in order. He once again felt himself drowning in the unholy river Lethe, its water black as ink and its magical properties erasing all of his memories, all of his triumphs, to make way for memories of defeat and helplessness. Being harpooned like a fish, then dragged back out of the Lethe by his enemies. Being burned alive in the river of fire known as the Phlegethon. Drowned in each of the remaining three rivers of the Underworld, those of hate, sorrow, and lamentation, with nobody to drag him out of the final one. Eventually his limp form was carried downstream, to the great pit in the center of the Underworld where all rivers flowed: Tartarus.

The fall felt like it took an eternity. Slowly, what little light had existed in the Underworld above began to fade away as he cascaded deeper in to black depths. At last, he crashed to the bottom with a thud that shook the ground and recoiled upon the walls of the pit, echoing maddeningly. The fall that would have ordinarily reduced a mountain to dust did little to the Keeper, for death was no escape in this realm. Cursed and made vulnerable by the final three rivers of the Underworld, hate, sorrow, and lamentation seeped out of the body, intermingled with blood. The accursed things boiled into a foul vapor before coalescing into shackles and chains.

The nightmare ceased. The giant's eyes snapped open, though it made no difference; the utter darkness surrendered none of its secrets to his sight. Still, there was no need to see, for he knew the jailors were coming. The shiver down his colossal spine always foreshadowed the arrival of the wraiths that tormented him. The giant tried in vain to scramble backwards, as he always did, but the chains held him resolutely. It was too late, in any case, for they were already upon him.

His tormentors managed to elicit his howls, as they always did, but this time they got more than they bargained for. The forgetfulness and oblivion of the river Lethe had seeped deep into the Keeper's mind, where it would always stay. The Styx's hate, Acheron's sorrow, and Cocytus's lamentation had left him to form the chains. But the fire of the Phlegethon still burned strong. Mogotheddon let the unholy fires wash over every fiber of his being, searing strength into his broken body much as the kiln does to wet clay. His rage knew no bounds. With what amounted to little more than a twitch, his massive hand shot out to grab one of the wraiths that approached. The thing shrieked and burned upon mere contact with Mogg's flesh. A triumphant roar erupted from deep within his chest.

 A thunderous clattering caused the Keeper to suddenly jerk his body around. As he did so, another deafening sound came from the opposite direction. Mogg laughed as he realized that the sound was that of his massive chains snapping like twigs. He awkwardly clambered to his feet and began walking. The chains that shackled his feet were shattered just as easily. Breaking out into a run, the broken chains clattering behind him, the giant eventually came upon the wall of the near-bottomless pit. His fingers found purpose once more as they gripped the rough stone. He tried to begin climbing, only to crash back down to the ground. The fire washed over Moggotheddon again, enraging him. He managed to scramble a little ways up this time before losing purchase, though he did not fall. Out of his manacles, their broken chains hanging loosely by his side, his former jailors emerged by the hundreds. The wraiths, now forced to obey his will, grabbed their master with ghostly hands and began to lift him upwards, out of the black depths of the pit.