The Great Wound #

One of the most powerful among the Avenari, Asmodeus stood as a radiant figure in the Great War, cutting down the ancient demons with unmatched zeal. Disgusted by the violence and chaos they birthed, he sought to impose symmetry and order upon the fractured planes. He drew his elegant, immaculate realm dangerously close to the Abyss and waged countless campaigns with his flawless warriors. Every strike was precise. Every maneuver was made with intention and grace. Yet the Abyss answered with endless tides of shifting nightmares, spewing forth horrors that defied logic, reason, and form.

Asmodeus soon discovered the futility of his efforts. It was like trying to hold water in his hands—he could imagine a hundred ways to shape it, but no matter the method, it slipped through his fingers. Slowly, insidiously, he and his host began to change. The hunters grew more like the horrors they hunted, and the horrors grew more like the hunters. The Abyss birthed increasingly stable, terrifying abominations, and Asmodeus, in turn, embraced ever more brutal methods, where the means became as important as the ends.

After uncounted eons, the realm of Asmodeus became a place many avoided—its beauty dimmed, its hospitality frozen beneath a veneer of cold precision. In his desperation, Asmodeus devised what he believed would be the ultimate strike against the Other— a weapon powerful enough to drive it back and give him the time he needed to mend the wound it had torn into reality.

When he presented his creation to the other Avenari, they recoiled. The weapon drew its strength from the essence of the Creator, from the Source itself—an act they deemed blasphemous beyond measure. But Asmodeus ignored their warnings and unleashed it.

The wound he sought to heal did not close. The Other did not flinch.

Instead, a new wound tore open—one that pierced through all his siblings’ realms. Their countless essences spilled into the prison where the Material Plane was born, forged by the chaotic explosion of their scattered being. The path of the energy of the weapon created the Astral plane where is pierces all the planes.

The weapon’s might diminished the Source itself. Entropy grew stronger, beauty withered, perfection cracked, and imperfection rained across existence. Asmodeus wept black tears as his form twisted into something dreadful. From that day, he carried a fragment of the weapon at the head of his scepter, a reminder cursed in equal parts regret and resolve.

He vowed to find a way to seal the wound. Whether he has succeeded remains unknown. Some whisper that all events, in time, will lead to his final triumph. Others claim he has long since succumbed to corruption and no longer cares. And there are those who fear that, in the end, Asmodeus will become no different from the horrors he once hunted.