The Throne of Sess’innek
Realm of the Emperor Lizard
Location: Abyss / Layer 7—Kearackinin
Editor’s note: I acquired this account at great expense from an unreliable narrator—a shadow fiend named Ly’kritch whose perspective is steeped in malice and self-interest. While it provides insight into Sess’innek’s dealings with such creatures and hints at deeper mysteries surrounding his throne, much remains speculative or likely exaggerated for dramatic effect. It is unclear if Sess’innek truly fears the qlippoth or if this is merely projection on the part of the shadow fiend. Similarly, while rumours persist about ancient secrets beneath the ziggurat, there is no physical evidence to confirm these claims.
Ah, the Throne of Sess’innek, a glorious place of dread and wonder, a beautiful monument to domination and despair. I have seen it with my own hollow eyes, its jagged silhouette rising from the swamp like a clawed hand reaching for the churning sky. The ziggurat pierces the clouds, its steps carved from bone and blackened stone, etched with runes that pulse with a green magic. Lightning coils around its spires like serpents, striking down any who dare approach unbidden. The air itself trembles with his voice—a low, thunderous growl that vibrates through the marrow of those who come near. Even the Lizard Kings tremble when they ascend its steps. But I do not have marrow and I am invited, and fear is delicious nectar to me, so I climb.
This ziggurat is a gateway to secrets buried deep beneath the swamp’s surface. Beneath its base lies a labyrinth of tunnels and chambers, their walls slick with ichor and lined with glorious grotesque carvings that predate the lizard god’s reign. Ancient horrors are entombed here—remnants of forgotten gods, primordial forces that Sess’innek himself fears to disturb. The qlippoth, the ancient enemy, are drawn to this place like flies to a carcass. They linger in the shadows, circling, watching, waiting. Perhaps they seek to reclaim what they believe was once theirs, or perhaps they are drawn by something darker—something even Sess’innek cannot control. Is his throne truly his creation as he claims? Or is it something older, something he stole? Even we shadow fiends do not know for certain.
And yet, despite these dangers, Sess’innek remains here, seated atop his throne thinking himself a predator in its lair. He meets with we shadow fiends, for we alone can slip through the cracks in reality to reach his sealed plane. We come bearing whispers from the outside: Secrets stolen from demon lords, knowledge plucked from mortal minds, rumours of ancient powers stirring in forgotten corners. In exchange, he gives us what we crave most—souls. Not just any souls, but those bound in soul prisms, their essence distilled into pure agony and ecstasy. Our price is high, he must pay with the very best souls. He harvests them from the finest of his petitioners, tricking them into false tests of strength so he can weed out threats and delicious treats. Each prism is a treasure beyond measure, for us.
Why does he trade with us? What does he seek in return? We know only fragments of his purpose—he is searching for something, some knowledge or power that eludes even him. Perhaps it is tied to the qlippoth’s interest in his throne; perhaps it is something buried beneath the ziggurat itself. He speaks little during our exchanges, his six blades resting across his lap as his glowing eyes bore into us. But his questions linger in our minds long after we depart: “What stirs in the Astral depths?” “What whispers pass between the other Lords?” “What do they say of me?” His paranoia is palpable, a storm that churns endlessly within him.
And we? We revel in it. The fear that creeps into his voice when he speaks of qlippoth. The desperation hidden behind his questions about rival powers. Sess’innek may be mighty, but he is not invulnerable—not to doubt, not to fear. We feed on these cracks in his psyche as surely as we feed on the souls he gives us. And yet… there is something about that ziggurat that unnerves even us. When we stand before it, we feel its pull—not just the pull of power but something deeper, darker. It watches us as much as we watch him. And though we leave with our prizes clutched tight in our claws, we cannot shake the feeling that one day we will return—not by choice but by compulsion.
Source: Jon Winter-Holt