It is said by those who really should know better than to speak of such things, that the paths of the Twisting Nether are as many and varied as the inhabitants that dwell therein. Just as Azeroth has it's rolling hills, wide savannahs and parched deserts, so the Nether takes many forms, ever shifting in ways utterly incomprehensible to mortal minds. And yet...amongst the chaos of form and function that is the very nature of the Void, some areas remain relatively stable, bound against the shifting tides of the Nether by the mighty will of great Powers. Great plateaus of basalt and lava float ponderously through nothingness, anchoring the brazen fortresses of the Nathrezim with chains of adamant. Impossibly large planets of molten metal shift and flow along the tides of void, their liquid surfaces popping and crawling with the endless horde of lesser demons that have not the will to escape their prison. And yet, no matter how fantastic these sights are, the Nether always holds more secrets....and more pain.

There is a place hidden deep within the twisting vortices of the Void, a place where the darkness turns in upon itself, folding layer upon layer of nothingness into a tapestry of utter night. Within this no-place, no eye may see, no foot may tread, except for those whose nature is at one with the enfolding Dark. And if one were to be able to see as the denizens of the void do, through the endless night of this no-place, one would see at it's centre something that should not be.

A tower. It's walls hewn from the deepest night, rising black against black into the nothingness. And in the tower a mighty hall, vast and vaulted. And in the hall a single throne, small and alone against the vast space that engulfs it. And on the throne a solitary figure, sitting motionless, it's ebon eyes staring into the vast emptiness that is it's domain. For this is the Fortress and Prison of Naz'thalak the Desolate.

The Lord of Nothing.

The great Prince of the Nether sat as if made of granite, unmoving for an eternity. And yet, the Ancient Will that was forever trapped within this no-place was constantly alive, reliving in It's twisted consciousness the hurts, loss and emptiness that were It's very nature. For in the mind of one who is truly eternal, even the smallest slight may be remembered over and over again as a source of despair and pain. And Naz'thalak had forgotten nothing from It's long existence. But it was thoughts of the mortal realm that proccupied the demon prince. It had found a new pawn....a warlock whose grief and despair were a mortal reflection of the demon's own nature. And this warlock had already proved useful, for Naz'thalak now knew that an old enemy was abroad upon the world called Azeroth. Within the darkest corners of It's mind, a plan was beginning to hatch.

Yes, this mortal Warlock would prove to be very useful indeed.

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