The First Daemons
Before the coming of mortal life,
there were no daemons. Even when
the first generations of mortals began to
die and make their way to Pharasma’s Court
for judgment, from there sent on to the various
planes of Outer Sphere to become new entities, the
wasteland of Abaddon lay fallow, an unnecessary
and forgotten upthrust of stability within the
chaos of the Maelstrom. It wasn’t until the first
horrible cataclysms on the Material Plane created
an unprecedented torrent of spiritual petitioners
that the River of Souls overflowed its banks, and
souls bound for Pharasma’s realm washed up on
any number of shores.
Some of those came to rest in Abaddon, and
it was here that reality itself—tortured by
the sudden shock of rage and despair caused
by the first mass deaths on the Material
Plane—allowed the twisted birth of something
new. A singular soul, one filled with more
loathing than all the others combined,
gestated in its own rage until it erupted
into an altogether unique entity: the first daemon. Surrounded by a sea of likewise hateful
souls, the daemon gorged himself on his brethren
and grew in power. In the depths of Abaddon’s
wastelands he flexed his might, beginning to
reform his surroundings into something as
corrupted and twisted by hatred as the daemon
himself. The daemon saw it was to his liking,
and so he called out to those other souls damned
and forsaken—those evildoers driven not by
ordered ambition or chaotic frenz y, but by the
impartial taint of purest evil and nihilism—
and like a tidal pull and clarion call, they
followed the daemon’s beckoning, incapable of
imagining the doom that awaited them.
Most of these lost souls found only oblivion
at the hands of the daemon and his horrific
domain, but others survived and likewise
experienced that same transcendence into
daemonic forms, becoming the first generation
of their kind. As each soul arrived on
Abaddon’s rocky, blasted shores like mewling,
wretched flotsam, the daemons feasted upon
their rotting souls, savoring each one with
terrible glee. It was at this time that one of the daemons—the original, the First—whispered out to the cosmos,
mocking it, taunting the gods with the knowledge that each soul that came to Abaddon was forever
snuffed out, each light extinguished. Among all the gods, only one, the death goddess Pharasma,
listened to the voice, as the other deities squabbled in their own wars and conflicts, and remained
ignorant of its whispered mockery. Before long, the low growl of something else replaced it—the cries of
thousands of souls, being devoured by the daemons of Abaddon.
The cries went on for eons as Abaddon grew, its realms divided up between the greatest of
daemonkind. There was no longer just the First—indeed, daemons of all makes and sizes now
inhabited the horrid lands, preying upon the River of Souls that led deceased mortals to Pharasma’s
Spire. The Styx channeled in evil souls from other planes as well, and the daemons welcomed the
castaways with open arms and jaws. Finally, Pharasma looked down from her throne and realized that
she could no longer ignore the voices that whispered at her—four voices where once there had been only
one, all wet with unrestrained hunger.
“Give us what is ours,” whispered Pestilence.
“Or we shall take them, even more than we do now,” threatened War.
“We must be fed,” demanded Famine.
Last to speak was Death, who chuckled softly. “You have seen the Beginning and the End,” the
Boatman noted. “You know what must be.”
And it was true. With a nod, the Lady of Graves acquiesced, forming the Devouring Court and its
gate to Abaddon within the Boneyard. Through it, she began to send those damned souls destined for
the new realm of oblivion and unending hunger, delivering them to the Horsemen’s eager embraces.
And with each soul consumed in that darkened place, each spark stamped out, the daemons further
their goal, and the End draws a little closer.