Appearance

In the ancient days when it was still whole and masked, Naught took the form of a small mortal child. Clad in unremarkable attire and of an uncertain race, it drew so little attention to itself that the only thing one might remember upon seeing it was the ornate mask that sat upon its face. Many attribute the seemingly random acts of chaos in the universe to this time spent on the Material Plane.

Those days are long past though, and in the present age Naught almost entirely lacks a distinguishable, physical form. Where it is, there is almost nothing. Its visible form simply consists of the shattered remnants of a pale white mask that hangs motionlessly in an impossible void. It would not be accurate to call it a cloud of darkness, or some amorphous shape that drinks in the light, for even the absence of light is still something that can be perceived by mortal senses. No, it is something else entirely: something that should not be. To look upon its void-birthed form is to invite madness and confusion, for even the strongest of mortal minds inevitably buckle and are unmade upon trying to make sense of the sentient paradox that lurks before them.

When the Formless One deigns to communicate, It does not speak. It simply removes all sound that is not the sound It wishes to be heard. When It moves, all distance and between It and Its goal is removed, any obstacles that would bar Its passage are unmade. It cannot interact with all that is physical or material in any real sense, it can only cause portions of it to cease to be.

While it is impossible to study what the Lord of the Void actually looks like beyond the shattered mask that serves as its first and only attempt at true shape, scholars of the demonic have hypothesized that It is similar in form to that of an ooze. Naught seems to lack any coherent shape, and the section of reality that ceases to be in its presence seems to be analogous to that of its demonic ooze servants. Accounts of its size seem to vary greatly, with most scholars simply agreeing that trying to impose mortal limits upon such a thing is an exercise in futility.

Naught’s broken mask is, as previously stated, the only real piece of It that conforms to creation’s laws, and as such has been studied extensively. Six bone-white porcelain shards hang still within the void, their surfaces completely unmarred, save for the jagged edges that mark where they once held together. Crackling arcs of incandescent power flicker between the pieces, bridging the gaps and holding the shards from falling back into the event horizon that is Its form. Faint whispers amongst the Hellstack’s most experienced information brokers have suggested that the distance between these shards has begun to close in recent years, with some drawing a link between this and the ever-accumulating number of deaths of Its Faceless children.

Methods and Motivations

In its earliest days, Naught stood apart from all created beings of light and shape. It could claim that it existed in a fashion, but little else. It held no form, possessed no senses, and felt nothing. The magics of the Hell King could compel it, but for the longest time it did nothing else save exist, or serve at the Hell King’s whims. Naught was but a hole in creation, driven by alien thought that could barely comprehend anything outside of itself. It simply was.And then, one day, its world was torn wide open. Quite literally, as the Prince of Blood and Pain was sent screaming through the arcane membranes that separated its domain from those occupied by the other Princes of the Hellstack. The raw, jagged dimensional tears gave Naught its first look at all that existed beyond the umbral vacuum where It dwelt. It would not be accurate to say that It was able to make sense of all that It fathomed through these windows between worlds, and yet that fragments that It did understand awoke strange desires in It. It witnessed sight, and desired to see. It beheld shape, and lusted for it. But perhaps most of all, It desired “to know.” As Its ability to understand, perceive, and interact with the world outside Itself was in turn limited by Its current state, It sought out a method to bypass this weakness and reached out to Its fellow Princes for the first time. Most could not understand It or Its flailing attempts at communication, and quickly cut off all contact. Some attempted to manipulate or otherwise forge pacts with the Formless One. These attempts, too, fell by the wayside. It was only the one-time Prince of Perfection, Beleth bin-Amon, who in their skill and desire to be perfect in all things, was able to make contact with and somehow communicate with the Lord of the Void. To say that this was a difficult task was an understatement, but yet after much difficulty the Prince of Perfection was able to understand their alien sibling, and after further study they understood what It wanted. Together they created an incredibly powerful enchanted mask; a veil that might contain the nothingness of Naught and bring shape, light, and feeling, to where there had once been none before.

It is said that the entire Hellstack reverberated and shook as the final spells were laid upon its ivory surface, and that even the very fabric of creation itself buckled under the blasphemous paradox that it represented. Nevertheless it was done, and as Naught assumed the mask, it looked through the dimensional membrane that separated it from all else that existed, and uttered its very first word.“No.”The only thing It felt as It fully beheld and comprehended beheld the infinite possibility of all that was, was revulsion. As It felt, as It learned, and as It saw, It felt nothing but bottomless hatred for all It observed and a great deal of self-loathing aimed at Itself, for It had once desired to know these things when It was ignorant. Assuming a mien of physicality led It to the final conclusion that existence in the face of inextricable entropy was meaningless, a cosmic mistake that called to It to be corrected. The Void would claim all things given enough time, grinding everything into nothingness. In the face of an eternity of non-existence, what purpose could a fleeting century or two of mortal life possibly serve? All that they were, all that they built, and all things they affected would ultimately meet oblivion one day. The fact that mortals carried on despite this ineffable cosmic truth incensed it, and on that very day Naught decided that if they would not bow to entropy willingly, It would force the issue.

In those days, Naught was mighty, its power almost beyond comparison. As It grew more accustomed to Its physical form and the sensations It derived from it, Its ability to interact with the existent world grew exponentially with each passing day. Whereas once Its ability to wield the forces of oblivion was raw and unfocused, directed only by the spells of the Hell King as a blunt instrument, now Its powers were increasingly becoming more and more refined. As Its understanding of both Its own nature and the material world grew, Its fellow Demon Princes began to worry. They feared what might result if Naught were to turn Its gaze from their Celestial and Draconic foes and turn the Void upon themselves, and it was quietly rumored that even the King of Demons was concerned about what damage the Formless One might wreak upon the Hellstack.Having decided that direct confrontation was unnecessary and overly precarious, the Hell King instead resolved to humble his errant Prince by way of an ancient and terrible spell. It is said that the mouth of the Black Tide was redirected into his ritual circle for so long that hell-marked mothers met their sin-stained grandsons in its swirling energies, before being broken down and rendered together with the foul arcane power of the Deep. Over what must have been age to the tortured spirits that were mutilated by his will, the Hell King crafted one of the most potent spells of destruction ever devised. When at last the ritual was finished and the Hell King’s power took shape, a missile born of pure arcane hatred tore through his sanctum and carved a path through every layer of the Hellstack. It is unlikely that Naught even saw the scintillating bolt of hellfire before it crashed into Its face, so terrible and quick was its flight. The First Mask that once gave shape to the Formless One cracked, then almost immediately shattered under the strain of the Hell King’s spellwork. With a thunderous blast that shook the very foundations of its domain, Naught’s mask was torn asunder. As it reeled under the assault, the resulting fragments were drawn to the only other beings marked by Naught’s power. His Faceless children. Though the power itself awakened these formerly mindless constructs into true sentience, the trauma was simply too much for their childish minds to handle. All memories of this time in their existence was wiped clean, and when a Faceless awakens upon the surface of Arthos, they do as a blank slate.

In recent years much of its work towards ushering in the accelerated dissolution of all things has been set aside, in favour of reclaiming its stolen power from its unwanted Faceless offspring. With each Faceless that meets a final death, its mask mends itself ever-so slightly, and it is rumored that once the last Faceless dies, Naught will regain the full measure of Its power and sentience. And this time, even the Hell King himself may not be enough to stop It…

Powers and Abilities

Naught is the endless hunger of the void, entropy itself harnessed and sharpened by an alien intelligence. Its is the power to destroy and devour all things that are, to unravel the threads that bind them and draw them into non-existence. All It needs to do to remove a troublesome foe is to simply decide that they no longer exist.. There is no explosion, no discharge of magical power, no crumbling to dust. They simply cease to be, unless their will is stronger than that of the Formless One. Its power does not begin and end at removing living beings from reality, but so too can it selectively cut away at creation’s laws. This requires further focus and greater will, but if the Lord of the Void wishes it, It may eat gravity, devour light, and feast upon thought itself. To face Naught is to know what it means for reality to break down around you, as the ironclad laws that once governed your life become mere suggestions at best. Many of Its foes have tried to cage or control Naught with powerful spells, only to discover that it has eaten the weaves of mana before the spellwork had even begun to take shape in their hands.

However, most of Naught’s work is far more subtle than the acts of sudden erasure It is capable of. For in fact, the inevitable decline of all things is not natural. In the earliest ages of Arthos, while death was no stranger to those who warred against one another, the decay and impermanence of all living things was not yet established. When the Dreamleaf was whole, all were immortal, forever perfect and unchanging. But with Naught’s birth and the awakening of the Void, came Entropy. This raw, primal energy of dissolution radiates outward from Naught, crossing all boundaries and infecting nearly every plane in some fashion. The process of decay, the march of time, even the finite nature of magic, all of these owe their eventual dissolution to this oft-misunderstood byproduct of Naught’s existence.

Furthermore, those who seek to oppose Naught are often stymied by the fact that in most senses of the word, It does not truly exist. At least that is to say, It does not exist within our own reality. Innumerable shards of the First Mask lay suspended within an oozing physical form that is all but immune to injury. Quite simply, one cannot kill It, as there is quite literally nothing there to kill. Others have to engage in mind games with It, and have failed for similar reasons. There is a consciousness there, that much is certain, but deceiving or even understanding such an odd thing is nigh-impossible for even the most brilliant of mortal minds.

When masked, Naught was still quite alien to most beings of light and shape, but It understood and could interact with creation in a more complete and worthwhile manner. Its thoughts, power, and influence became sharper and more focused. But with physicality, came certain disadvantages. When It held onto a form, Its presence could be felt, monitored, and even thwarted. In the current age, broken as It is, there is no spell, power, or being that can observe Naught. All that is, is forever blind to Its presence. Scholars of the Conclave that have studied the Faceless race have theorized that their masks are grown from the broken shards of the First Mask, and this in turn provides a weak, but stable link to the Formless One granting them their aura of non-detection. When they forcefully remove said mask, it temporarily breaks that link, thereby announcing metaphysically themselves to all who might be listening.

Weakness

On one hand, it can be truthfully said that Naught’s nature and abilities make It one of the most existentially terrifying Demons to have ever existed, on the other hand it is also true that It is monumentally weak when compared to Its princely brethren.

First and foremost of Its shortcomings is Its alien mind. The Lord of the Void does not understand us, we creatures of light and shape. It does not understand how we think, what we want, or how we feel. It cannot grasp how to motivate behaviour It wants, nor does It know how to punish actions that It does not desire. Thus, when It does act, Its plans are often simplistic and confusing, full of illogical holes or grave misunderstandings. Furthermore, even the level of focus required to enact even the most basic of schemes is extremely taxing for It, and Naught cannot maintain Its focus on anything real for very long. Even Its applications of brute force, where It directs Its raw unfiltered entropy, are often easy to dance around or outmaneuver and even the most middling mortal schemers can plan circles around the Formless One.

Secondly, all It has at Its disposal are Its powers of the endless void of non-existence. Where other Demon Princes might be puissant warriors, cast a wide variety of powerful magics, or have vast armies of powerful servants, Naught has none of these things. All It is, all It has, is entropy. Even the mortal cultists sworn to Its service are something that It does not understand or even really utilize in any significant way, although they are so few in number it is unlikely they would make much of a difference anyways. Naught is the Void, and as such It cannot abide by the forces and energies of creation. Or more specifically, the creation of new life. It cannot feel pain as mortal creatures understand it, but the Formless One does seem to react in a negative and intense fashion to the genesis of living things. Such a power is difficult to harness as a weapon to be sure, but the energies surrounding It are an impediment to Its entropic forces all the same.

And lastly, while It is more or less invulnerable to most magics, the Hell King was known to possess secret knowledge that can circumvent this. Perhaps he is or was the only being powerful enough to halt raw entropy by his will and power alone, or perhaps it was because he was present at Naught’s genesis and was witness to the secrets behind Its un-creation. Whatever the case may be, he could bind the Formless One and compel It to action if he so desired. However, it is rumored when Naught donned the First Mask and gained shape, these spells ceased to be effective, which in turn motivated the Hell King’s vulgar assault upon It.

Domain

Principality

The Wünderhole itself is an ocean so vast as to be effectively infinite. One could sail for a thousand lifetimes upon the fastest ship and never spy the shore or make landfall upon an island. The sky that hangs above would be entirely dark, were it not for the brilliant yet foul energies of the spiritual vortex that brings some measure of light to this foul abyss.Naught’s entropic power extends beyond the borders of Its domain into its neighboring plane, and although It lacks the focus to direct it accurately, Its powers inevitably find purchase upon the long lost and forgotten pieces of the Deadlands. Over time, these chunks of that grim realm are severed entirely from their former home and fall into the currents of the Black Tide, where they remain until they are deposited into the infinite sea of the Wünderhole. It is said that for a time, these fragments of long lost cities, temples, and other places of note may yet cling to existence for a good while. Eventually however, they will fall into nothingness as they are utterly consumed by the power of the Void.Beyond these nigh-obliterated fragments of the Deadlands, one might think nothing else exists but endless water and the oozes that crawl upon its barren ocean floor. These folk would be vastly incorrect. While vast beyond belief, the ocean is not infinitely deep. There is a small rent in the fabric of creation that lies upon the ocean floor, a piece of non-existence that guards a treasure so beautiful and marvelous that were it not so guarded, all of creation’s rulers would wage war to claim it.

Beyond this uncrossable border lies the Nameless City, an ancient metropolis whose actual name has since fallen to entropy. It is a place so vast and wondrous it puts even the greatest paradises of the Gods to shame. It is as perfect as the day it was built, for even the smallest iota of decay or imperfection can be seen upon any surface. It is true perfection, frozen in time and utterly immune to the ravages of Naught’s abilities. Here it dwells, in as much as a thing such as it can be said to dwell anywhere. Were Naught capable of emotion again, It would be locked in a state of endless rage, frustrated by Its failure to destroy this outlier in Its realm. Researchers of demonology are divided on why this might be the case. Some believe that the city was a creation of the being that Naught once was, forged by arcane might and thus bound to its spirit. In some antithetical way, this city can be said to essentially be It. Thus, it is protected via the paradox principle. Others however scoff at that notion, and attribute it to being created by some other being whose nature was Naught’s opposite, perhaps a long-lost God of Creation whose power at the time exceeded Naught’s current abilities. Whatever the case may be, it is certain that untold treasures and knowledge must await in its hallowed halls, should one be able to cross the wall of non-existence that keeps it apart from the rest of the Wünderhole. Naught’s nature means that It, and It alone, can pass through the void and remain unharmed. However, there are those learned in such matters who whisper that there is another method of ingress. Fragments of ancient lore speak of a way in which a Faceless can be used as a catalyst to pass beyond the veil of the void, and while the legends disagree on the particulars of the rite, all agree that the Faceless is the most important ingredient.

Reality has a rather tenuous grasp upon the Wünderhole, as it is continuously lashed by roiling waves of entropic force that emanate from its ruler. The water itself feels ephemeral and does not cling to the skin as it should, and the air that hangs above the waves does not satisfy the lungs. Even the most solid-looking blocks of stone beneath the surface can crumble at the merest touch, as if the bonds holding the rock together were so frayed that it was a wonder the boulder even held its shape in the first place. Even time itself does work as it should. Cause and effect are merely suggestions, and the plane’s rare visitors have been extremely perplexed when they have witnessed events that have happened long before the triggering incident. Mortals do not age here, but they will inevitably find that with enough exposure to the energies of the Wünderhole, said exposure is worse than simply accepting a final death. Some cultists or powerful mages who sought to avoid their death by taking up residence there have described the process as feeling “stretched thin.” You feel less and less as your own personal timeline slows to a halt, with many unable to comprehend why or how their body is no longer entirely there anymore. The few who have witnessed this process have called it one of the most terrifying sights of their lives, because in nearly every single instance, none of these disintegrating mortals looked to be unhappy or appeared to be in any sort of distress. They simply smiled the entire time, as if to say, “This is good. This is right.”

The only creatures immune to entropy’s unwavering assaults are the esoteric and strange oozes that populate Naught’s domain. It is unknown how exactly they maintain their existence in the face of creation itself breaking down, but it is theorized that it may have something to do with their unique constructed nature. It is likely that the Formless One’s first attempt at creation produced something so utterly base, simple, and primordial that even the primal forces of entropy do not notice them.

Demonic Hosts

Where other Lords of Hell are oft-attended to by a vast and diverse array of demonic beings who vary in appearance, power, and intelligence, the Demons that serve Naught are shapeless and relatively simple creatures by comparison. These senseless polyps composed solely of protoplasmic mucus are a far cry from their demonic brethren, with most Demons likely reacting with extreme prejudice should a being ever be foolish enough to lump them both into the same taxonomy. It is theorized by mortal scholars that the wide array of toxic, carnivorous ooze-monsters that plague the Material Plane can draw a direct line from the first of the Wünderhole’s native brethren.

Unlike most Demons, Naught’s oozes were not a product of a conscious and deliberate act. In actuality, the ooze is essentially a byproduct of the Void upon Celestial beings. After its destructive energies strip away nearly all that they are or will be, for some reason unknown to any academic a piece yet remains. One shouldn’t, and yet, there it is all the same. A small, shapeless bit of plasm that yet retains a small measure of existence despite the odds. These creatures are bound to Naught as much as one can be, and vary in colour, shape, and size, with most of their characteristics being largely dependent on other external factors such as their environment. While the eternally burning Hellfire Oozes are perhaps the most commonly found species, all manner of oozes exist in the formless wasteland of Naught’s domain. And while they differ in many ways, they still share certain common traits across all phenotypes. First and foremost amongst these is a complete lack of intelligent thought. No ooze possesses a brain or anything of the sort, and is at best driven by base desires and instinct encoded into their shapeless forms. Their second common trait is a general lack of complexity. They have no organs, no skeletal structure, or anything beyond the slime that composes the entirety of their physical form. While many may be far from impressive, especially when compared to the finest of the Hellstack’s forces, the oozes are legion. Many a Celestial has fallen to the powers of the First, and if Its slime-like progeny were intelligent enough and able to leave the Hellstack on their own, they could likely blanket the surface of the world several times over with their numbers.

Cults

Mortal Cultists

Those mortals who are typically drawn into the service of the demonic are most often those who crave power, blood, or forbidden knowledge above all else. Their desire for these things is so great that they cast aside all morality, social convention, or even the integrity of their own spirit for whatever morsels their cruel and inhuman masters deign to offer them.Naught however, is different. It offers their followers nothing. It grants no magic, offers no demonic investments, and sends no Demons to aid them. Any power they do want, must be claimed from other sources.

This is especially true of Wytchcraft. That foul magic is purchased from other intelligent Demons in deals where true names are exchanged, servitude is pledged, and so on. Naught has no Demons with which mortals might negotiate, nor does it engage in such practices itself. It is whispered that the only way one might earn Wytchcraft from it is by inflicting a final death upon one of the Faceless. Only this sacrifice can forge the link necessary to grant that power, but such an act happens so rarely it is but a whispered rumour at best.Those precious few that do consider themselves one of Its cultists are rather unique. One might expect that a person given entirely over to the dissolution of all things that exist must be someone riven by intense despair, or fueled by a great anger directed at the world or the people that wronged them. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Nearly every mortal cultist of Naught has quietly and calmly accepted that all that exists, must end. That is simply the proper state of things, and they only exist themselves to usher everything else towards its final dissolution. Anything less in the face of entropy is arrogance and narcissism of the highest order. We have no right to exist as we do. These Naughtists come from walks of life and all races save the Faceless, and often have very little in common aside from the desire to usher in the eschaton.

Amongst these cultists, the first thing that most are called to sacrifice is their sense of self. Using hidden rites handed down through the centuries, they carve their very name from creation’s skein and the minds of all that knew them as an individual. Taking up random, meaningless signifiers meant to obliterate the last remnants of individuality, these cultists can often come across as simplistic constructs, and not the sapient peoples they once were. Instead of calling themselves “I,” most cultists of the Formless One will refer to themselves as “This One.” Furthermore, they often take to scaring their faces beyond all recognition, and in doing so they honour their patron by destroying the last, crucial part of their identity as an individual.

Preferred Sacrifices

While Naught desires the entropic dissolution of all living things, there is one particular type of living being whose sacrifice is far more likely to attract the gaze of this inattentive Demon Prince. The race of demonically-tainted Constructs known as the Faceless are Its children, created by mistake through an assault that still infuriates the being to this day. While it can be said that the Formless One hates all living things, It reserves a special mixture of disgust and rage for Its former servitors. Not only does their very existence make Naught Itself an unwilling party to an act of creation, which in and of Itself causes an alien rage removed from the spectrum of emotion, but in each individual Faceless resides a small portion of Its full measure of power. By hastening the final death of a Faceless, a cultist of the Lord of the Void causes that fragment of its mask to rejoin the larger shards of the First Mask that rest within the Wünderhole. Each fragment brings the mask closer and closer to being made whole again. It is said that this is one of, or perhaps the only way, to truly gain the attention of this alien being. It is entirely up to the cultist on whether this is a good thing or not.

Summoning and Rites

The Rite of Dissolution

There are few, if any, recorded rites or ceremonies dedicated to the Formless One. Its cultists eschew the act of recording their knowledge, as the act of creating or recording knowledge is widely considered to be a taboo. Furthermore, they are quite few in number and their cult practices shun hierarchies and leadership figures. These practices have thus combined into a set of beliefs that inhibits the bequeathment of the hidden mysteries of the cult to the newer generations.

However, there is curiously one particular rite which does seem to crop up in nearly every void-touched cultist cell. A rite that does not need to be taught, nor do any seem to remember learning it from another cultist. They simply know, and most believe that they have always known this rite. The price that such power demands is also well-known, for to cast the endless into annihilation is a feat that can only be done if you yourself are willing to pay the very same cost.

The Rite of Dissolution is typically saved to bring an end to immortal beings, be those who are simply ageless, or those who have in some way conquered the twin processes of death and entropy. Gargylen, Draconians, Liches, or most commonly, the Faceless, are all valid targets for this rite’s foul and terrible magics. Beginning only in complete and total darkness, the cultist is called to lay the bound or otherwise secured victim upon an altar of stone anointed by a draught of water taken from the Wünderhole’s ocean surface. Then the cultist must call out to Naught, and tell their lord why and how their victim has defied entropy’s natural course. If the cultist’s plea manages to actually reach the Lord of the Void, a small wound in reality will form in their hand. Taking the rough shape of a primitive knife, this hole in the fabric of creation cannot be held by the cultist for long, as its energies will devour them just as greedily as the cultist’s target. This entropic blade must be plunged into the target before it can consume the wielder, for it will disappear once it has been satisfied.

Once the entropic dagger takes hold, it completely devours the target, body and spirit, leaving nothing behind. Even the memories of the target are consumed by the all-encompassing hunger of the nothingness beyond. However, should this rite be attempted upon a Celestial or Demon, a small portion of that being is not destroyed by the forces of entropy. Instead, that small kernel of essence is irrevocably pulled into the Hellstack where somewhere deep, down in the darkest depths of the Wünderhole, a new ooze bursts forth out from under the mire and muck.

History

The Birth of the First

Source unknown

Author unknown

“For time immemorial, it who would become the First laid imprisoned in the nethermost depths of the Wünderhole. Its entropic influence slowly roiled outwards from Itself in irregular waves, constantly buffeting the demonic realm that strained to maintain its integrity in the face of the Void’s constant hunger. No life could thrive there, no Sun but the light of the Spirit Tempest lit its umbral sky, and even the very ocean itself seemed almost unreal. Demons did not gather in their numbers there, nor did it play host to a single mortal spirit. Barely anything could be said to exist there at all, and it is said that even its infinite expanse of spirit-touched water held few distinguishing characteristics. It was truly a featureless, miserable place, even by the low standards set by the other Princes of the Hellstack.

And this of course, was truly by design.

For you see, there are things that even the Hell King fears, and Naught was first and foremost amongst them. While it would not be correct to say that he feared for his life or felt that he lacked the resources to deal with the entropically-charged paradox he had created with Ixiad’s aid, he dare not forget that the power of non-existence was truly an equal to his own might. Fortunately, due to the nature of Its being, Naught was essentially non-sentient, only occasionally capable of the most basic thought. It did not fully exist in our world, indeed it could even rightfully be said that It did not truly exist at all. It lacked eyes with which It might see, a voice with which It might be heard, and a body with which It might make Its presence known. And yet, It could take anything that existed, and make It like itself. It could pull something apart so completely, down the smallest metaphysical layer possible, leaving nothing behind but the faintest scraps of aether that once bound it all together.

Without a mind to direct this power, It simply languished within the hellwrought prison that the Hell King had shaped for it. The Wünderhole was crafted specifically to keep a being such as this caged until It was needed. By surrounding It with as little existence as possible, the Hell King sought to thwart any quickening of thought and keep Naught in a permanent state of blind idiocy. That way, he might wield Its powers by compelling It with ancient spellcraft, while also heading off any threats It might pose to his sovereignty over the Hellstack. And for a time, this plan worked as intended. The living wound torn into the very fabric of creation that was Naught sat there for eons, wallowing in Its boundless ignorance.

The cataclysmic and violent descent of Mara’bagash through the various layers of the Hellstack Plane brought change to his once-static realm. Thousands of jagged tears were torn open as the Demon Prince of Blood made his descent, his hooks latching onto a portion of the Deadlands and dragging it alongside the Wünderhole’s planar border. Through the subsequent drip feed of long-forgotten pieces of the Deadlands into his principality, Naught was made aware of all that existed outside of Itself, and the mere fact that something could indeed exist spoke to unknown fragments of immortal sentience that stirred within It. It desired to feel, to think, and to act, but possessed no mind or body with which It might fulfill these frustrated desires. Lacking any capability to pursue a solution on its own, It was forced to reach out to the other rulers of the Hellstack. All of Its fellow Princes were completely unable to understand its alien attempts at communication, but a single one amongst them assumed the challenge of reaching an accord with this alien thing. For Beleth bin-Amon was the Prince of Perfection, and their nature would simply not allow them to admit that there was a task that lay outside their capabilities. After what would have most assuredly been many sleepless nights had they both been simple mortal beings, Beleth bin-Amon was at last able to devise a method that might allow a form of communication between itself, a physical being that did exist, and Naught, a non-physical thing that did not. While Naught was completely incapable of anything resembling speech, or creating anything at all, It could channel Its entropic abilities in a more focused manner. By eliminating all sound that was not what It wished to be heard, It could assume a facsimile of speech. And with this gift, a bargain was finally struck between the two princes. Beleth bin-Amon would help It transcend the limitations of Its non-existence, and in turn Naught would agree to turn Its power upon their enemies.

To accomplish this impossible task, they would craft an artifact to contain the Formless One’s boundless nothingness. A mask meant to give senses, form, and shape to something that technically, did not even exist in our reality. A metaphysical bridge that would hold within It an impossible contradiction: existence and shape, oblivion and form, simultaneously intertwined.

Amongst all of demonkind, the spirits of the true Thalan are the most valued of the material peoples. For in them is a power unmatched by any mortal being, and the feats of tainted Demonic Magic that even one such spirit can enable are the stuff of legend in the Hellstack. The First Mask, as it was called, consumed an Archfiend’s ransom in these spirits in its creation, and its sheer cost speaks volumes regarding the worth that Beleth bin-Amon placed upon the bargain they had struck with Naught. Those precious few of the immortal true Thalan who died with enough sin weighing down upon them were quite rare, and the amount that found their way into the possession of the Prince of Perfection were rarer still. And yet, Beleth bin-Amon still gave them up freely.No one, not even Beleth bin-Amon themselves, knew exactly what would happen when Naught took up the mask. Reality itself might have buckled and broken under the strain of the paradox they created, or the mask itself might simply be consumed by the Void that Naught wielded. And while it is true that at the moment of Naught’s ascension all of creation was briefly thrown into chaos, after what may have been a single moment or a thousand years, reality was able to adjust. The First Mask held as it was cast into the churning obliteration that was the Formless One.

For you see, the sheer power of even a single Grey Elven spirit is nigh-unquenchable. The entire host that Beleth bin-Amon poured into its creation meant that even in the face of the purest expression of entropic decay, their strength was not devoured or diminished. Instead, their power took shape underneath the mask’s flawless ivory-like surface. Their tortured might crossed planar boundaries, natural law, and even causality itself, as the anomaly held firm in the face of reality’s ceaseless assaults. The shapeless void gathered and took form, and for the first time, Naught laid eyes upon the world. It did not merely see the faint glimpses of light It had managed to grasp in Its previous state, no, now It saw all that exists in its entirety. And It understood. Through the rents in Its forged prison, It bore witness to a random, uncurated selection of all that existed. For the first time, It felt something.

Revulsion.

It saw the boundless wonders of creation, and was filled with nothing else but endless hatred and disgust. This was what defied It, what defied the Void? This filth persisted in spite of, and fought against, the proper end of all things? No, that would not do, that would not do at all. All of it, all that existed, must be expunged. Had Beleth bin-Amon not been prepared, they would have likely been Naught’s first deliberate victim. Even so, the wounds they suffered in their escape were almost fatal, and it is said that they consumed countless spirits to aid their convalescence after they made their escape. Naught was unconcerned though, and turned Its attention to the wide array of rifts that perforated its demonic Principality. It would focus Its attention upon a particular world that was, and then suddenly, it was not. Nor had it ever been. Such deliberate acts of wanton genocide and destruction did not go unoticed, and the Hell King was less that pleased when he discovered what had transpired between the Prince of Perfection and the Prince of the Void. His rage was stoked to even further heights as an extremely terrified Beleth bin-Amon was forced to share the truth behind the First Mask’s construction, for then the Hell King knew what it would cost him to undo this colossal error in judgment. Regardless of the price it needed to be paid, as Naught in its current state was one of the few things the Hell King rightly feared. The spirits he sacrificed that day might have won him another godly corpse at his feet, as so great was their power and number. Such a grand sacrifice was needed however, to fuel the singular spell that would shatter the First Mask and humble Naught once again. As the last of his black incantations fell from his lips, a bolt of sickly green light leapt from the Hell King’s finger and tore a direct line through all the realms of the Hellstack. Anything it touched was destroyed utterly, never to be seen again. In an instant, it slammed into the mask of Naught, and it was undone. In a single cataclysmic moment all that It had become, all that It had learned, was torn away as the First Mask was shattered into hundreds of shards. Thrown clear from the Hellstack by the sheer power behind the explosion, these shards grafted themselves onto a selection of mortal spirits, giving rise to the nascent Faceless race.

Satisfied, the Hell King returned to his other endeavors, and in his arrogance he did not make certain that Naught was well and truly defeated. For while it is true that it was now a far cry from what It once was, Its form still held a few tiny, faint shards of its former glory. Those shards of the mask called to its fellows on the mortal plane, and with that, It knew what It must do. Ever since then, Naught has bent the entirety of its limited capabilities towards ending the immortal lives of the Faceless on Arthos, so that It might make itself whole once more…”