624,000 years ago
From the matter of all the Primordials forged themselves. Fire, rock, air, all of the materials crashed together forming the most powerful beings to ever travel the multi-verse. Only when the Gods found them did they meet their match. Yet there was a substance they seldom touched.
Deep in the bowels of the Abyss, they formed a beast of malice and horror. It was a hunter, an ultimate assassin able to travel through worlds to find what it sought. It was a weapon of terrible power.
Like many weapons of the Dawn War, it could not so easily be destroyed by the prevailing Gods. They buried it in the tombs of Death’s Reach, where it would sit eternal in vaults none could ever reach.
But reach it they did.
72 years ago
The dust of ages covered Arantham’s boots as he stood on top of the hills of Death’s Reach, the pocket dimensional vault of the Primordials. The carcass of a massive beast lay behind him. Shonruvvu, the marilyth keybearer stood at his side.
“We will find the vault soon,” she whispered.
“I know,” said Arantham. His blue eyes gazed over the wasteland. Out there lay the Primordial’s greatest weapon, he thought. The weapon that would end his suffering and end the suffering of everyone and everything else. They would find it soon and begin to awaken it.
“Elder Arantham!” shouted the dwarf black knight, Uganan. “We have found something!”
“Is it the Reliquary of Timesus?” Arantham shouted back. The massive Goristro, Thax, stood behind the dwarf.
“It is not, but it is certainly something you will want to see.”
The dwarf was right for once. It was marvelous. Black onyx body, razor sharped talons, and those eyes, like pinpoints of black suns. It was a truly marvelous weapon fit for his lord, Orcus.
“Open a gateway, Shonruvvu. We have a gift for our master.”
Orcus’s hand itched yet every time he went to scratch it he felt nothing but air. Annoying though it was, it still made him laugh. None if would matter in just a short few days. So long had this been orchestrated, so long had he planned. It was all coming together, everything in its place. It was time for another piece.
“Harthoon,” called the prince of undeath. From the shadows floated the lich Harthoon, the castellan of Everlost and Orcus’s longtime advisor. Orcus smiled when he saw the lich’s pinpoint eyes focusing on his stump.
“It’s time to the Holocaust.”
“Are you sure, my master? Once it is released, it can never be called back. It would walk through worlds to find them.”
“I am the one who found it, lich. Do not forget to whom you speak.”
“Of course, my master. Consider it done.”
The Prince of Undeath smiled; what a surprise they had in store. His hand itched again.
“And Harthoon,” said Orcus. The lich turned around once again. “Fetch the dwarf.”