The beginning of the Elder Wars: that first, fated skirmish between the Heralds of Magnora and the vaunted leaders of the Elder Gods. But "skirmish" is too charitable a term for the massacre that ensued when the blue-skinned one, Amberle, reached a hand out to one of the greater Heralds - as if concepts such as kinship and mercy meant anything to one who had wandered the Void for fifty thousand years, knowing only silence and hatred and the vast, ever-present hunger that is our curse. When Arkxlixael the Tormented lashed out with fang-tipped tentacles to ensnare and devour - when Draybaxlock the Black curled her vast, sinuous body around whole batallions - when Illith the Leviathan opened her maw so it blocked out the horizon, conjuring an endless eternity of teeth into which Herald and Elder alike were consigned, shrieking... we followed merely our nature, that instinctual drive to destroy, pervert and ruin that is our birthright; a holy mission handed down, hand to claw, from the Great Magnora Herself. When the "battle" was done, our appetites were not sated, but inflamed, for we knew this vanguard to be merely a portion of the Elder Gods who once existed, when Dynara and Magnora and that nameless Third warred amongst themselves. But we would not seek them out. A torrent of psychic images - our usual means of communication - burst outwards from the chitinous husk of Illith, around whom we orbited like tiny moons. We would remain here, feast upon the remaining essence of the fallen, and swell with coruscating power. Thus prepared, we would await the remaining Elders. They would come, Illith assured us, bludgeoning us with a torrent of bitter amusement: matters like kinship and mercy mean much to one who has lived a pampered and cosseted existence upon the lush and magnificent First World.

I crawled, spiderlike, between my kinsfolk to nibble at the fallen essence. I was careful to never take too much: though my presence was tolerated, I was at best twisted amusement for my fellows, a capering clown to torment and beat when our endless sojourn through the Void grew tiresome. I had seen too many of the so-called "minor" Heralds devoured for impudence, and the dangerous game of attempting to become more powerful. It was considered impertinent for us to partake of too much of the delicacy of Half-Formed spirit, for they were all too rarely encountered within the vast reaches of the Void. Though a banquet in comparison to our customary meals, the fallen First Circle was reserved, in large part, for the Greater Heralds, whose strength would swell and whose minds would expand with a concentrated draught of Star God potency. Faintest glimmers of trailing, ethereal essence were my only solace, the most minor scraps of divinity mine to sullenly and surreptitiously chew upon. Thus it was that I gained not the dizzying vistas of enlightenment of the Great Ones - the combined powers and knowledge of the greatest leaders of our foes - but mere flickers of thought, maddening in their intangiblity. From one scrap of essence I obtained the concept of "flowers", an Elder God creation which seemed, to me, fruitless (but all 'creations' seem fruitless to us, conditioned as we are to tear them down and return them to nothing). From another the idea of "nature spirits" was plundered, and I moaned with longing, imagining the ease with which I could murder and feast upon the seperated, weak essence of an Elder, imprisoned in the form of some naturally-occuring phenomena. Thus it was I amused myself in the weeks following the decimation of our foes, while my betters martialled themselves for the true battle, that they knew was still to come.

When it came, sadly, we were woefully unprepared. The Elder Gods were there in their entirety, and in terms of numbers we were wholly overmatched - perhaps as much as fifty to one. Yet some of our so-called "ones" were such as Zenos, Muud and Crazen! Dozens fell before their might, stripped to bone within seconds, bone itself devoured mere moments later! Our might exceeded theirs: with the exception of the few ensouled Primal Gods, such as Dracnoris (under whose claws and wings Draxbaylock the Black fell, decimated utterly), they could not hope to best us in single combat. And of course they knew it, and had came thusly prepared.

The Daath Sequence, as I now know it to be called, was employed upon us.

I was the only one to realize what they were doing. I was the only Herald present who did - I, known as parasite and worm amongst my kin! Ha - the selfsame kin who were too busy devouring the fallen to notice the trap they were ensorcelled within! A lifetime of emaciation, of servile scraping before my betters, of clawing at carrion - it had bequeathed some decided advantages unto me, you see. When the great batallions of Elders began to churn and vibrate with pure domothean energies, I fled instantly, my sense of self-preservation easily overpowering my hunger for both battle and sustenance. Pausing to even cry out a warning would have been pointless, I knew: resulting only in my death, whether from a bloodlusting Herald, a contemptous Elder or this new and terrifying weapon they were employing. Thus it was silently that I scuttled off a safe distance: and thus it was that I alone of the Heralds witnessed the final events of that day. It was I who witnessed a glowing warrior scream with rage and rescue some of his number from the maw of Illith, risking his life for his fellows. It was I who witnessed the soundless explosion of energy, decimating everyone - Elder and Herald alike - who remained within the epicenter of the circle of combat. It was I and I alone who witnessed, finally, the remaining Elders (who numbered few indeed compared to the legion that assailed us) limp away, no rejoicing upon their humbled lips, no light of joy or merriment blazing within their hollow eyes. For them, it was not a victory: mercy and kinship have drawbacks, you see, and they felt the searing loss of every fallen Elder God acutely.

I am not sure how long I remained, huddled a safe distance away from the graveyard of my kin. Perhaps mere hours; perhaps days, or even weeks. Time has no meaning in the Void, as you may well know. Finally, I mustered my courage (or perhaps my hunger for the massive fount of raw essence merely overwhelmed my good judgement) and ventured forwards, my mouth puckered into a perfect circle, intending to drink deep of my fallen kin. But I did not get a chance. A ropy, tarry-black tentacle rose from the shapeless, charnel mass and whipped me across the face, sending me soaring back a considerable distance. As I lay there in the formless, colorless void, Crazen rose before me, a terrible and amorphous mass, bubbling and reforming constantly into ever-increasingly nightmarish forms. Searing psychic images lashed out from him, more terrible by far than the blow he had dealt me, for they were invested with a cold and murderous fury.

An image of me impaled upon one of Crazen's tendrils, barbed filaments sucking the flesh from my bones, yet leaving my inner essence intact and thus me alive.
An image of Zenos, the insubstantial wraith, whipping around me in an invulnerable storm, plasma rending and scouring and burning me.
An image of Kethuru ensnaring me in a rotten web of flesh, trapped eternally, unable to escape or even perish to end my torment.
An image of the maw of Muud, and the great parasites which lived within, and me trapped, wandering, within his lethal and labyrinthine digestive tract.
An image of Illith snapping me in two, my essence bleeding from me in a gaudy, tentacular mass of liquidious shadowstuff.

As an image of each of the mightiest Heralds imprinted itself upon my quailing, terrified mind, they rose up as if called back from the grave by their overwhelming desire to inflict harm upon me. I screamed pointless platitudes at them; made outrageous promises, told them I would hunt the furthest reaches of the Void to bring back the most delectable, the most powerful of Half-Formed for their delectation, if they just please, please spared me. Mocking laughter vibrated within my skull, and I closed my eyes, preparing myself for a lethal blow... but of course, it did not come. The Greater Heralds, newly risen, were glutting themselves upon the glistening web of essence which surrounded them. I was of no consequence to them now, and my consequence seemed less and less with each passing moment: the deaths of the First Circle had strengthened the Great Heralds beyond all recognition, but even they were a mere snack compared to the legion of dead Elders all around us - Elders of every circle, each offering a new and exciting dimension of power and flavor for my kinsmen to sample. The disparity in our respective powers was now absurd. Whereas before I had been like a calf to a bull, now I was as an ant to a dragon. Escape from them would be unthinkable, combat suicidal. I merely sat there, forgotten, and watched as all the struggles and sacrifices of the Elder Gods were rendered as naught. Several more Heralds rose from the soupy, primordial goop, and also partook of its nourishment, but were slapped back with nary a thought when the Five Great Heralds decided they had had their fill. When the essence had dried up, the newly-minted Heralds of Magnora roared and chittered with cacophonous glee, and set out the way those few remaining Elders had gone: back to the First World. Back to Lusternia.

I followed at a safe distance. It was not difficult to track them; a veritable river of nightmarish images were imprinted upon the malleable surface of the Void in their wake, allowing me to follow them right up to the outlying barrier of the First World itself. Of course, the Elders had sensed the Great Heralds return. How could they not? Great thinkers and scientists existed amongst their ranks (and a great deal of their knowledge now resided within the husks of such as Crazen and Zenos, courtesy of their fallen), they had means of detecting our kind, and defences were employed against us. None of us could break through: it was terrifying to see the murderous rage with which Muud smashed, again and again, into the impassable magicks of the Star Gods. I added even my own feeble efforts to the assault, though the pitiful flames I conjured were instantly doused. Illith, disgusted by our ineptitude, gave a roar of such volume that many of us were forced backwards, our hands (or hand-analogues) flying to our ears. With a single, fluid movement, the Leviathan crashed through the barrier of the Elders, emerging into the First World and into combat with our hated foes. Yet the veil immediately reformed into an impassable barrier after her, and we were unable to follow her slipstream. Thus we did not witness her legendary encounter with the subterranean Primal God known only as Keph: all we knew was that for months we attempted to break through the barrier, and when it was finally dispelled, through the combined efforts of us all (save, perhaps, my feeble contributions), we beheld Illith, cleaved in two yet still, somehow, alive - the immeasurable force of her malice sufficient to supersecede an otherwise mortal injury. Nevertheless, she was much weakened, and no longer the unquestioned commander of the other Heralds, who bounded eagerly to fill her place. If anything, this increased her wroth, her sheer hatred towards the Elders who had done this unthinkable thing to her - made her all the more spiteful, all the more dangerous towards them.

The weeks that followed must have been terrifying for the Star Gods. I almost felt pity for them. Yet the majority of my sympathy was reserved for myself. My situation was more tenuous, more harrowing than ever before. Weakest of the Heralds, I had no chance of defeating any Elder of note in combat, thus increasing my power through vampirism; the weaker Elders, who might have fell before me, were long gone, devoured by my betters. I was starving. Worst of all, I could no longer hide behind the bulk of the Greater Heralds, trusting that I was their court jester, and thus immune from (serious) harm. They were hungry, too. As their power waxed, so too did their hungers, but the battle-worn Elders were becoming cautious: becoming clever. They were losing, make no mistake - but they were losing slowly, and the Greater Heralds were not happy with the scarcity of their meals. Poor fare my soulless carapace may have been, compared to the coruscating delight of a Star Gods soul, and yet I have no doubt revealing myself to such as Zenos or Illith would have meant my condemnation to some unimaginable stomach, to be slowly digested in lieu. More than my fellow Heralds, I feared capture by a terrifying creature known only as "Roark": a pink and naked beast, he possessed a foul desire to ensnare lesser Heralds like myself - I lost count of the nights I heard the screeching of my kin on the wind as yet another fell victim to his strange designs.

So like a worm I slithered through the underground caverns of the First World on my belly, rising only to sate my relentless appetite on the pathetic animals birthed by the Elders; even these meagre meals ruined by the overmastering terror of being discovered by my everywhere foes. Emaciated as I always was, I grew ever more so, my outer form growing to reflect my anorexic mindset. Fangs sprouted upon my hands; my hue paled from a rich purple to a faded, careworn blue. I began to ponder if Heralds could perish, were they so deprived for so long, and seriously wondered if my departed essence would dissipate into the land, as an Elders, or poison it forevermore. And then, in my darkest, self-pitying hour of need, I was discovered.

It was not a lone Elder who happened upon my latest hiding place, a circular, subterranean cavern - so vast in scope, it may have been the very staging ground of the great fight with Illith and Keph. It was three Elders. Two were robed in simple, utilitarian blue: a male and a female, they were so similar I knew instinctively they were of the selfsame creche. Their only difference was the unbound, black hair of the male, counterpointing the severe, pulled-back bun of the female. The third, however, was luminous, mighty; one of the few surviving Firsts. Richly robed in crimson, a serpentine crown sat upon his unlined brow, and a commanding light shone from his fathomless eyes. He spoke to me, this one, in tones of gentle reason, as if the communion of an Elder and a Herald was the most natural thing in the world. He had been looking for me, or one such as me, for some time. He said things I knew to be true, things I have, indeed, described in this tale: that I would die if left to the ministrations of the Heralds, that the First World itself would perish if the Five Great Ones were left unchecked. The Elders had to triumph. He had a plan, he said, this crimson king. A plan which required the cooperation of a lesser Herald. The two great thinkers, these plain-robed followers which followed behind him silently and obediently, had discovered a way to transform the essence of the Heralds into a palatable elixir. Ordinarily, we were poison to them: this much was known to be true, a fact that was common knowledge even to those such as I. Yet with this elixir the Elders could turn the tides by using the Heralds own tactics upon them! But the Heralds were thinning now, and the other Elders - cowards, he said, with cold rage etched in the meager lines of his noble features - had renounced the elixirs use. So this leader, this secret leader, had gathered a conclave to gain supremacy, to fight a secret war on behalf of their ailing race. It was bold, I confess, and I asked this crimson king what my role in his plan was to be. Were he and his followers to eat me, I wondered with trepidation? Were these honeyed words designed to hold me still as he wove a magical cage, to ensnare and devour? Yet no - this leader proposed an alliance. I was to be their cow, to be milked on demand in exchange for sanctuary and food.

What could I do but accept?

I was escorted through the Planar fabrics and deposited upon a nameless Cosmic Plane, which was to be my home for many months, a place of rainbow skies and bubbling, fleshy plants, studded with rolling, many-irised eyes, which stared at me with vacant curiosity as I passed. I did not much like the Plane. Its limited dimensions and vivid colors I could acclimatize myself to, yet the constant reforming of the flesh totems was too hideously remeniscient of Crazen. I had not forgotten his threat to devour me whole: I could not shake the feeling that unfriendly eyes pierced through the fabrics of the world, gazing upon my hiding place. Yet for the first time in my miserable existence I knew a limited form of peace. For the first time, my belly was filled: the annual rite of communion saw to that. At least once a month (though never to any set schedule: the great crimson one was far too wily to be caught out by repetition), a masked and cloaked retinue would come to my new home and pay obeisance to the red one. Customarily, he would give a speech extolling the virtue of their mission, which never failed to inspire. Then, the chalice would be produced. Into it, a portion of my essence was siphoned, leaving me weak and swooning; yet unlike the Heralds, who would have skewered me whole, the red one was wise and had a follower (a different one each rite) bequeath some essence unto me in return. I began to learn of many things in this vampiric fashion, a steady stream of images and emotions travelling through a link more carnal and delicious than simple murder would have been. I could tell you the favorite flower of the pretty artist Goddess, or which piddling creator the ugly tusked God most despised.

Informative as my meals had become, I learned even more from conversations with the two great thinkers. They came to me often; sometimes as a pair, sometimes solo. They delighted in hearing tales of the Void and the habits of my fellow Heralds, who were a source of endless fascination to the male thinker in particular. He was always jotting down notes upon gleaming, gilded journals, or speaking softly and swiftly into little orbs, which seemed to record his words. Sometimes, the pair did not come to talk, but instead perform strange (but mercifully painless) experiments upon me. I was endlessly useful to them and their pursuits: the first Herald to be studied so exhaustively (by them, at least - I had not forgotten Roark and his depraved experiments). They perfected many beautiful and deadly artefacts using my aetheric resonance as a base, or my essence as a generator of power. It was curious, yet satisfying, to see the raw might of a Herald blended with the scientific ingenuity of these clever Star Gods. I began to feel kinship with these creatures, and for the first time a sense of dawning hope, of belonging. It only increased when I learned that the war against my former kin was advancing apace, courtesy of this splinter faction of geniuses. Their power was waxing: soon the war would end and they would take their place as the heads of their rebuilt society, with me among them. No longer a jester! No longer a joke! Now I was a creature of power and note, valuable and valued! As the other Heralds faded into the footnotes of the Elder Gods tragic history, it would be NEMACH whose name was emblazoned upon the firmament, chancellor of the Red King!

Alas, though, it was not to be.

We were betrayed, all of us, when a new, silvery Goddess entered their midst. She participated in the Rite; she gave her essence unto me. For the first time since entering this circle, I felt unease prickle through my filaments when I drank of her draught: the insights that I gained - crackling across my mind like a malignant lightning bolt - were disquieting. I could see a hushed circle of Elder Gods: though most of them were blurry and insubstantial (courtesy of this silver Goddesses perception of them), two stood out vividly. One a maiden in luminous green, one a stately man in regal blue. I puzzled over these figures, seared upon my mind with such unearthly clarity, and thought about reporting them to the Red King... but I did not have a chance. For it was then that the ferocious one, the one among them I feared and admired most - the tiger-masked warrior, glutted so on essence that he glimmered darkly - came towards the Red King, interrupting his latest speech. The warrior had sensed a presence lurking amongst the luminescent, gaudy flesh-plants. Elder Gods. Warriors, who trod not-quite-cautiously enough to elude the keen senses of the devouring Elder. They were seeking something, their hypersenses unfurling outwards like the fronds of the flowers they trod amongst. Around me, the Red King and his followers sped upwards like liquid light: he and his devouring lieutenant leading the pack, with the silvery one lagging behind all, a distant thirteenth. They would catch the intruders, and a meal would be made of it - or so I thought.

But they did not catch the intruders. The intruders were merely the vanguard of a gigantic force, one more than suited to the task of entrapping the Crimson One and many more besides. This I only learned later, cloistered beneath a great mountain on the Prime Plane, awaiting a sentence I was sure to be death: at the time, all I knew was that suddenly the hated Roark, the monstrous Roark was upon me. Though I reared like a serpent, the beast did not hesitate: linking his hands together, he drew them outwards in a smooth, fluid movement, and a prism of pure light suddenly erupted around me... and then contracted. In a mere moment I was trapped within this sphere of energy, which Roark hoisted up with barely-contained glee. He brought me to his fellows to brag about his victory, and though I screamed and raged, there was nothing that could be done to save myself. I was a prisoner, condemned by the superior sciences of the Elder Ones. The cage was complete, flawless; I had no more hope of breaking it alone than I had of smashing through that barrier the Elders had placed over the First World. I was no Illith, capable of rampaging through obstacles in insanity and wrath; I was no Zenos or Kethuru, capable of slipping through them like a terrible whisper. I was consigned briefly underground, beneath the great mountain of the Prime Plane, to await judgement... and then, more permanently, to the Void.

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"And that is my story, friend," said Nemach, his eyes dimming to a bruised and mournful purple as the tale ended. "That is how I came to be within this endless, wretched place once more - but, of course, you knew the last part of my tale, having had a part in it yourself. And glad indeed I am to have rediscovered you! I am sure that together we can puzzle out a way to release me from this prison."

"Oh, you shall have release," said Morgfyre, raw hunger evident in his blazing eyes, his skin bubbling and reforming like molten wax. "This I promise you."