From the darkness, light came, blinding and burning, surrounded by a whirling storm of images and sounds. The scream of the exiled, his mind, already broken by a torment still unconceivable by the rest of Creation, further corrupted by solitude, by contemplation of the unknowable. A mass of writhing black tentacles, yellow eyes staring at the world, a deathly miasma rising from below the most profound dephts of Hell. A pair of massive, darkly luminous wings, circled by flames of golden fire; a sacrifice unto existance itself, to preserve it from what lurks outside of it. A vortex of human screams, angelic warcries, demonic roars, and wails of ancient things awoken from their slumber: deep red ichor staining flesh. Finally, one last image is projected by the apparition: a great, rusted iron gate, dimly illuminated by the light of two torches, in one of the deepest tunnels of the Catacombs. In another flash of incandescent light, followed by a lacerating pain, the vision ended, and once again Unyat found himself surrounded by the darkness of his alcove, the many pictures brought by the vision still burning in his mind: most of all that of the ancient metal gate. The apparition was incoherent, incomprehensible: yet, one thing was certain. Behind those rust-covered doors, long forgotten below Pandaemonium, the thing, whatever it was, that caused Unyat to see what he saw was waiting.

In the middle of the great, empty hall, the fiery ancient flame burned, casting light and shadows where the Stygian Council reunites. An elevated pentagonal stone pulpit stood, barely illuminated, facing the large, brazen doors that leads outside. In front of the narrow curved stairways reaching to the top of the pulpit, a cloaked figure stood tall, slowly speaking in a hissing, sibilant voice. "My dearest Yalnela, I happen to have another, delicate mission for you." The black robes and hood worn by Beelzebub concealed his face, barely letting his chin and slightly smiling mouth being glimpsed, but revealed his skeletal hands, each ending in three long, claw-like fingers covered in grey skin, slowly moving as the Supreme Chancellor spoke. "As you surely know, a few centuries ago a chain of...disquieting events culminated in the capture and imprisonment of our monarch." A barely audible buzzing sound was heard as Beelzebub was speaking, a few flies orbiting around him, landing on his hands, robes and face. "What you might not know is that, not long before, an angel seemingly lost his mind and slew one of his kin, before being cast down from Heaven." A fly entered the narrow, dried lips of the demon lord, and disappeared inside his mouth as he continued. "None knew where he ended up, or even if he was indeed still alive. However, a few days ago I received a report from one of my spies, informing me that a being which he had identified as said fallen angel was rumored to dwell in the Catacombs. I ordered my spy to approach the being and, if possible, interrogate it, but the next day I received another report containing the bloody pulp of entrails and flesh which used to be my agent." Beelzebub's smile widened slightly, his invisible eyes turning to Yalnela. "I shouldn't have to explain why I, of course in the name of both the Council and the Conclave, want to know what that angel knows. Thus, I trust that you'll be able to find him, and bring him to my agents in the Catacombs, alive. You'll find him in one of the tunnels, behind a rusty iron gate: you should find it pretty easily." Even behind the darkness covering his face, it was clear that the demon lord's gaze focused on Yalnela, his grin widening a bit again as his voice slightly changed tone. "Don't get yourself killed, my dearest one."

The footsteps of the angels patrolling the fortress, their armors and weapons shining with golden light, echoed in the many corridors of Am Dhaegar, the bastion's architecture being austere and grand at the same time. At the end of one such corridor, a towering golden door led towards a high alcove, the domed ceiling adorned with mosaics and gems: many tall windows opened in the walls, the rays of Am Dhaegar's magical light filtering through them. In the center of the circular room, stood Darda'il, clad in resplendent, bulky armor, his bald head covered by a candid white hood; his mighty blade slumbered in its sheath, tied to his waist, the angel's left hand resting on its hilt. The seraph spoke in a solemn, deep tone, his three pairs of wings arched behind his back. "Laef, I have summoned you to discuss a most urgent matter." The High Overseer's inexpressive face slightly turned to one of sorrow, as his luminous gaze lowered. "I suppose you have heard of an angel named Urya." The last word was uttered in a slow, grave tone. "He was my friend. We fought together in the War...before his mind strayed from the light." Darda'il's right hand moved to his face, his fingers running across the old, white scar stretching from his brow to his cheekbone. "We believed he was dead, at least until recently. I received word that Urya is indeed still alive, and resides in the Catacombs." Once again, the seraph's voice became grave and slow. "I wish not to know what he has been doing all these centuries, nor what he is doing now. I merely desire to end his suffering." Darda'il turned slowly, his gaze focusing on Laef. "You must find him, and end his life. Apparently, he dwells in the Catacombs, beyond an ancient iron gate in one of the deep tunnels." The angel turned, looking outside one of the windows. "One last thing, Laef. Do what you must, but do it silently, and without bloodshed. This peace is already frail, and it is in our best interest to preserve it." The seraph's fingers grasped the sword's hilt more tightly, before relaxing again. "You are dismissed."

Unyat raised himself from his slumber, coiling his body underneath him to support his weight. Trying to banish the horrific images from his mind. The lance of pain already seceding. The Nglui seem restless and are raising quite a frustrated clamor, although it may be because they did not eat yesterday.

'Silence!' shouts Unyat in his mind, pouring a tiny trickle of magic towards the Nglui. Their reaction is to cower from him as though he is some god to them.

Unyat tries to meditate but the vision of the iron gate floods his mind every time he closes his eyes. This memory comes with a brief stab of pain into the recesses of his minds. Unyat gives up in frustration and eyes a subtly glowing vial, a soft blue light emanates from the vial. The glow comes from angel tears, to Unyat they are a mild narcotic to dull the madness that comes from contemplating the unknowable. Angel tears may be used for something else or effect others differently, Unyat never cared enough investigate. After some thought Unyat decided 'No, my mind must be unfettered to investigate this curiosity.' The gate must reside very deep in the catacombs, for they do not seem familiar.

Unyat opens his Tome, the book filled with his magical calculations and incomplete theories. When all else fails, the Tome is his comfort. His solace is often found in decoding the secrets of Pandaemonium or the lost rituals of his long dead gods. As Unyat flips through his tome he comes to a page that strikes his interest. 'Now, that is an idea I could use a hand for this task.' He begins rereading his notes on necromancy and reanimation. Over the next hour or so he works on the ritual he would need to create some temporary slave or golem. It wouldn't last for more than a few days before the magic dissipated. Once he settles on the execution he goes looking for a victim in the catacombs.

A simple task to find a seldom traveled rout in the catacombs but often enough that Unyat does not wait long. He finds a luckless victim, a bulky but lesser demon. Unyat prepares his attack while the demon approaches, it should only take a moment. The magic boils violently in Unyat's mind as he holds it ready to unleash on the foe. Just as the demon passes in front on the passage Unyat it hiding in, he unleashes the magic quickly as a crushing assault on the demon's mind. With no more than a yelp of surprise the demon goes slack jawed and collapses to the floor, his mind utterly destroyed leaving no more than a hollow shell. Unyat sighs at the rush of energy out of him feeling a dull tiredness spread through out his body, as though he had finished some great physical effort. He reaches out with his many tendrils grasping the corpse and dragging it into a near by alcove that should offer him sufficient privacy for his black ritual.

He holds the head of the corpse and begins to carve graven runes into its head and face to prepare for the ritual, chanting all the while.

“gtrah iru ftagn,
gtrah iru ftagn,
gtrah iru ftagn,
Iah, Iah, Iah, Iah!”

The magic begins to roil in his mind again, but it feels thick and unclean like having tar poured into his skull. An angel, or even perhaps a demon, would recoil in revulsion from this magic. Old Ones do not fear these black rituals for they are older than Pandaemonium itself. As the ritual begins to reach its climax the energy being held to fuel it begins beat against Unyat's mind brutally, as though it has a will of its own. Many eons of working with these secrets has braced Unyat from such assaults.

“gtrah iru ftagn,
gtrah iru ftagn,
gtrah iru ftagn,
IAH, IAH, IAH, IAH!”

as the magic floods out of him the runes carved into the demons head begin to glow and steam. The flesh on the corpse's head begins to burn, boil, and rot away leaving nothing but bleached bone. As the ash and steam clear the creature stands slightly unsteady on its feet.

“I am Unyat, I am your master”