Short update this time. This is the first of two final updates for part I of Metamorphosis. I'll start the second part on a separate thread, and then compile this one for easy reading.
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Part XVI
Pyrak watched his own death unfold with the stolid remorse of one who has long known his fate, yet failed to reckon with it. Dreadskewer and Hedrenatherax were merely the method destiny had determined would bring about his end. He watched the languid flight of that awful spear, propelled by the traitorous hand of his enemy, and knew that the abyss had no further use of him.
As Dreadskewer burst through his chest, Pyrak heard the maniacal glee of the sentient weapon, so unlike the cruel and clever subtlety of Fiendbleeder, Dreadskewer filled his head with the unsophisticated triumph of a malicious child. Taunting and emotionally charged, the mocking cadence of Dreadskewer followed Pyrak down into darkness. And he welcomed this darkness, gleefully accepting the void and the onrushing state of nonexistence. But as always his fate was not his own, and Pyrak was pulled reluctantly into a world of sight and sound once more.
He awoke to dim yellow light and silence, sprawling ignoble, limbs splayed upon the polished stone floor of a large room. Groggily, Pyrak rolled over and pushed himself up to a half-sitting, half-kneeling position and regarded the beaked countenance that stared back at him from the mirrored surface of the black stone floor. It was his own face, but there were subtle differences, the minor imperfection in his feathers and skin were gone, as were the scars of many battles. It was as if he saw himself as he did within his mind’s eye, and not the reality of a true reflection.
Pyrak felt renewed strength in his limbs, and he glanced over to his left shoulder, the place were Dreadskewer had made its initial mark upon him. The wound as well as the pain that accompanied it was gone, there was not even a scar.
Intrigued, the demon lord climbed to his feet, his eyes exploring his new surroundings. It was a throne room, not unlike the one in his own recently usurped palace. The room was hexagonal, with the throne itself in the northern end of the room, framed by a huge cloth backdrop of flaming crimson. The overall color scheme was black and red, the floors were polished onyx, and there were pillars of red marble in each of the room’s six corners. The ceiling soared and impressive sixty or so feet over Pyrak’s head, more than enough room to accommodate even his near twenty-foot stature.
The southern end of the room held what appeared to be the only exit, a looming set of black iron doors. Pyrak made his way to this egress, his talons clicking on the stone floor. There were no pull rings, so the demon lord simply gave the doors a stout push, expecting them to swing open behind the force of his exertion. He might as well have been pushing against a castle wall. The doors budged not an inch. Perplexed, Pyrak turned around and saw that he was no longer alone.
“Where are you going, demon?” A bearded human asked as he lounged in the throne that had been empty a few seconds ago. He wore a mocking grin that Pyrak somehow found familiar.
“Where am I?” Pyrak growled, clenching his talons and stalking toward the strange human.
“No where.” The human said. “But, you must admit it is far better than the place you were going.”
“I was dead, and quite happy to be so.” Pyrak said coldly. “Who are you and what is this place.”
“Oh, my dear demon, you don’t recognize me?” The bearded human pouted. “After so long, I must admit your ignorance wounds me.”
“What are you…” Pyrak stopped, his eyes blazed with fear and recognition. “Fiendbleeder!” He spat, at last. “What have you done!?”
“So ungrateful, demon, as always.” The human sighed. “What I have done is rescue you from oblivion. What I have done is given you the chance to strike back at your enemies. What I have done is allowed you to live again.”
“Hah!” Pyrak snorted. “Yes, as always you have my best interest in mind.” The demon lord jested sarcastically. “Where am I, and what is this face you wear? It is strangely familiar.”
“As to where you are, that is difficult to explain.” Fiendbleeder began. “When you were slain I took possession of your soul, your essence. You are within me, a guest in my own consciousness, this place is merely a construct I have created.”
Pyrak felt the clutching talons of hopelessness claw at his heart. Even death could not free him from Fiendbleeder. He would go on, possibly for eternity, trapped within the eldritch black steel of the nefarious weapon. “Why?” Pyrak whispered forlornly. “Why could you not let it end?”
“Because I still have a use for you.” Fiendbleeder said flatly, ignoring Pyrak’s obvious agony. There was no pity in Fiendbleeder, only cold, hard purpose coupled with dire ambition. “To answer your second question, demon, the face I wear is that of Hazergal Redcloak, a once mortal wizard, this throne room was drawn from his mind. Your familiarity with his form is not misplaced; you have met him before. He died and was consigned to the fugue plane as one of the faithless. Hedrenatherax found him brought him before you. Do you remember?”
“Yes, I remember.” Pyrak answered. “The great buffoon of a balor said he had found a faithless that had retained its abilities from its former life. Pure nonsense.”
“No, it is not nonsense.” Fiendbleeder said. “Hazergal Redcloak has retained his abilities and perhaps some of his memory as well. In fact he is far more powerful now than ever he was in life. The truth of the matter is, that not even I understand the full nature of his power, but I do understand that he is pivotal in our conquest of the hells, and the we must control his destiny.”
“Our conquest?” Pyrak said acidly. “You mean your conquest. I grew tired of this petty conflict centuries ago. It is utterly pointless.”
“Perhaps.” Fiendbleeder hissed. “But nevertheless, you shall continue to serve me in whatever capacity I wish.”
“And if I refuse?” Pyrak boasted, flaring his wings for effect.
“The bearded caricature on the throne grinned, a simple movement of the lips that carried an eternity of malice and treachery. “Then you will spend eternity in an all together less comfortable setting.”
Suddenly the walls of the throne room shifted and disappeared, wavering into a blackness that was quickly replaced with a hellish red glow. Fiendbleeder and Hazergal’s throne room were gone and Pyrak found himself standing on the scorched battlefield of Avernus. The demon lord searched the endless red horizon and saw nothing but an eternity of baked earth.
“I have been here before, sword!” Pyrak said into the empty air. “You will have to do much more than this to frighten me.”
The demon lord’s reply came as a low rumbling moan, rising up from the ground and filling the dead air around him. He looked down and saw the red clay beneath his feet had begun to grow viscous and thick, like a churning mass of liquid flesh. Alarmed, Pyrak tried to spread his wings fly himself free, but found that he could not. The strength in his body had simply drained away, and he began to sink into the churning red morass, utterly helpless.
“Enough of your games, Fiendbleeder!” Pyrak called out. He had sunk to his waist, and the dreadful moaning that filled the air suddenly rose to a high-pitched wail. The demon lord felt shapes moving around his lower body through the sucking ooze that held him, and the first seeds of fear found sound purchase in his gut.
The churning in the pit grew in intensity and suddenly the shapes that swarmed around his legs and stomach broke the surface, materializing into malformed lumps of the same liquid substance that made up his viscous prison. There was a vaguely humanoid form to these shapes, and each had a set of glaring red eyes that roved almost independently through the liquid contours of the creature’s head. Each was also equipped with a simple mouth-like orifice, filled with a forest of bone-like spurs, and emitting the awful wailing that filled the air.
Horror dawned upon Pyrak; he recognized these creatures. They were lemures, the damned souls of the nine hells, sentenced to live out eternity in formless agony. Frantic, Pyrak tried in vain to move, to get away, but his limbs would not respond. The lemures’ eyes lit up in delight at their hapless victim, and they full upon him in waves.
The pain was indescribable; the lemures tore and chewed at Pyrak’s body, adding his black blood to the bubbling morass of their domain. He screamed until his voice was nothing more than a rasping croak, screamed until he coughed up the shredded gobbets of his own vocal chords. His body writhed with a torrent of devouring lemures, greedily feasting upon his imprisoned flesh. And when he had reached the point of madness, when the lemures had chewed his limbs down to the bone and the pain had reached an incomprehensible plateau, it stopped. Darkness descended, and when it lifted Pyrak found himself whole and hale again, standing before Fiendbleeder in Hazergal’s throne room.
“Had enough, demon?” Fiendbleeder asked, his smile bearing the threat of further torment.
Pyrak was nearly unhinged with the memory of the horrid pit of lemures, but he found his voice nonetheless. “Yes, please. No more.” He croaked. The piteous tone of his words sickened him, but he had no choice.
“Good!” Fiendbleeder exclaimed. “What I have in mind for you is far better than spending eternity being devoured by lemures.” The sword jested. “Now come close, we have much to discuss.”
, damn, it must be true. Well, at least I know it is going to be a boy
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Almost reached the 4th page! 
