Clanging metal reverberated faintly though the stone, heavy footfalls pattering somewhere far above. Somewhere in the citadel's upper reaches the orcs were fighting once again. The sound of the distant skirmish was the first sensation that the devil had registered in a long time indeed. How long was impossible to say, for he had not only lost track of time but all interest in it. There were few things interested him anymore.

The demon Arkhagon laid upon the cold stone floor in pitch blackness. In more hopeful times, this was the deepest hold of Arkhagon Zul, the nexus of power of the once-mighty stronghold. Falling water from the citadel's great dam was harnessed, used to generate arcane energy, and condensed here for use by the master of this place. The arcane conduit that in centuries past crackled with life was now stone cold. For a long time indeed, this place was naught but a great emptiness in the deep.

Arkhagon had laid here for many years in agonized torpor, scarcely moving at all. So still, that a thick blanket of dust had formed over him. He shifted slightly, twitching to hear the sounds of combat somewhere far above. He regarded the orcs fighting in the upper levels with contempt. How foolish could the greenskins be, to spill their blood over this worthless ruin? In the past century, a great earthquake had all but toppled the stronghold's twin spires and severed the conduit running between this chamber and the hydromancy engines. The engines themselves had been torn apart and stolen for their precious metal, as had everything else this citadel had once contained. The tremors had likely broken the dam itself as well. There was nothing left to fight over in Arkhagon Zul, only an imposing ruin for some greenskin warlord to call himself master of.

Perhaps, Arkhagon thought, he was no less foolish than the orcs for remaining here.

He had laid here for many years, ever since returning to Geryon from a twelve-year journey in the Beyond. He had been combing the underworld of Hmegoth, fighting the indigenous demons of that plane and questioning the doomed souls there, asking if they had seen [i]him[/i]. But even in the Beyond, Arkhagon's master was nowhere to be found. Daigon, the Dark Lord of Nagath, was nowhere to be found in any of the numerous hells and underworlds.

Ever since the realization that he would never again see his master and only friend, Arkhagon wept and agonized, relegating himself to an enternity of loneliness and misery.

Arkhagon considered - not for the first time - that perhaps it would be better to end himself. After all, there was some small chance that his soul would encounter Daigon's somewhere in the Beyond. And that was slightly more hopeful than laying in the darkness until the end of time. But for the devil lord, ending his own life was easier said than done. Daigon's Gift - the dark ritual in which Arkhagon was transformed from mortal man into a demon - was a powerful blessing indeed. Arkhagon was effectively immortal now, and exceedingly difficult to kill in battle. During Daigon's rise, Arkhagon had once led his master's forces in a the charge across the lava fields of Thagarond. There, he and the vampire thralls he was fighting against broke through a thin spot in the volcanic stone, and fell into a pool of glowing magma. The enemy combatants were instantly incinerated, but Arkhagon was coughed up from a nearby lava vent a fortnight later - encrusted in volcanic glass and horrifically burned - but alive nonetheless. It would take a powerful foe indeed to end his life.

It was then that Arkhagon felt another sensation - the smell of a man. A human? Here? For a time, he was uncertain, but it was not long before the devil lord could confirm the scent. A man was approaching, descending through the rock above. He was silent, but to the devil the air reeked of mortal man. Arkhagon could almost taste the vitriol and ambition in the intruder's very perspiration wafting now through the stagnant air of the dark chamber. Arkhagon was very interested, and rose now from the floor. Years of dust cascaded off of the demon's body as he hungrily sniffed the air. He knew what this interloper was now, for only one kind of man ventures so boldly into a demon's haunt.

Castigati.

Arkhagon felt for the first time in centurires something approaching happiness. He would have his death wish granted soon enough.