Ancient tanar’ri lord of forgetful oblivion [gender forgotten] / CE 

Realm: Abyss / Zenador / The Palace of Lost Things

So cutter, you be asking ’bout one of them dark whispers that floats through the Abyss, a tale as old as the chaos itself, and it’s got a twisted underbelly to it, so pull up a chair and lend an ear.

Zenador is an ancient layer battered and reshaped by the whims of the River Styx, a place of broken realities and memories lost to the fog of time. It’s the forgotten land where nothing’s quite real and everything’s more than a bit off-kilter. Now in the middle of this miasma of mystery, you’ve got the grand forgotten city of the ancient tanar’ri lord Zzyczesiya (jye-ZEE-sha), a place that’s more like a waking dream than a burg. Towers reach towards the sky in impossible angles, defying all known laws of physics, and gardens overgrown with weeds hold secrets untold in their twisted foliage. The whole place is crumbling with age and neglect, as if the multiverse simply forgot about it. Which is exactly what’s happened.

Now this Zzyczesiya, they’re a proper enigma, a master of obfuscation and the patron of all things unclear. Just think on holding the knowledge of the ages, all the dark secrets and forbidden lore of the multiverse in yer head, and then choosing to forget it all, to revel in the bliss of ignorance. That’s Zzyczesiya for you, a demon lord who turned their back on knowledge, seeking refuge in the haze of forgetfulness, where memories fade like morning mist and nothing is quite what it seems. A seeker of oblivion, a sower of confusion, a lord of lost and forlorn souls wandering in the mists of time.

Their philosophy is a twisted one, a call to abandon all burdens of conscience, to drown oneself in oblivion, to embrace the void and forget all that pains you. It’s a dark path of self-destruction and loss, where the end goal is to become a blank slate, devoid of memory, knowledge, and responsibility. Imagine living in a perpetual haze, where nothing matters and nothing is real, a place where you can escape the clutches of your demons by simply forgetting they ever existed. But it’s not all darkness and loss. Imagine wandering through streets that you can’t remember from one day to the next. The world would be a place of endless discovery, a place where every day is a new beginning, where the past is a distant memory and the future is an open book. It’s a feeling of freedom, where the chains of knowledge and memory can’t hold you back, where you can be whoever you want to be, free from judgments and expectations.

What thing could an ancient tanar’ri lord possibly fear so greatly that they’d obliviate their own mind to forget it? Now this is speculation of course, but it’s a dark story I rather like to tell. Way back in the primordial days, when the multiverse was still findin’ its feet, there existed entities of unimaginable power. These were beings so ancient and so fundamental to the fabric of existence that their names became words of power, keys to the gates of unfathomable forces. And one such entity, its truename, fell into the clutches of Zzyczesiya the Ungrasped.

Now, truenames, they ain’t just a tag or a title, no. They are the essence of the beings themselves, a vibrational signature of their very existence, etched into the core of the cosmos when reality was but a mewling babe. To know such a name is to hold the very heart of the entity in your grasp, to command its power and to shape its nature. It’s the kind of knowledge that comes with a price, one that can drive you mad with power, consume your body with obsession, or crush you under the weight of responsibility.

Now, I ain’t one to gossip, but the tale goes that this ancient name of power grants control over somethin’ fundamental to the Abyss itself, a force older than the tanar’ri, older than the obyriths, older than the gods themselves. We’re talkin’ about a primal chaos, the very stuff of creation, the forge from which all things sprung, a power that could reshape the multiverse or unmake it with a mere thought.

But, here’s the rub, cutter. This kind of power, it’s not to be trifled with, and Zzyczesiya is no addle-cove. Power is a siren’s song that lures you with promises of glory and might, but at what cost? To wield it is to risk losin’ oneself, to become a puppet of the primal forces that churn in the dark corners of the multiverse, a slave to the whims of an entity that knows no master. Unwilling to use the name themself, but fearing the inevitable temptation, Zzyczesiya tumbled to an extreme solution.

So, the Ungrasped, they fled to the forgotten corners of the Abyss, to a place where memories go to die, where secrets are swallowed by the mists of time, a realm of silence and oblivion. They sought to forget, to unburden the terrible knowledge they carry, to erase it from their mind and gain freedom from its grasp. But deep down, in the shadowy recesses of their being, the name still lurks, a whisper in the dark that promises power and domination, a word that could set the planes ablaze or forge a new order in the chaos of the Abyss.

You ask what the name may be? Oh, cutter, you don’t toy with such matters. It’ll be a word lost to time, a whisper in the void, a secret kept from even the most venerable sages and the mightiest of gods. Some say it’s a sound that can’t even be uttered by mortal tongues, a word of such resonance that to speak it is to risk unraveling the tapestry of existence itself. It’s a name now buried deep in the mists of the Forgotten Land, guarded by a being who has forsaken everything, even their own identity, to keep it hidden, to protect themself (and by extension the multiverse, although that’s a secondary concern) from its terrible power.

But who knows, cutter? Maybe one day, some brave or foolish soul will venture into the depths of the Abyss, to seek out the Ungrasped in their haunted city of impossible towers, to uncover the truth and bring the secret name to light. But let’s be honest, anyone mad enough to chase such tales is likely to end up another lost soul wanderin’ the twisted paths of Zenador, a cautionary tale whispered in hushed tones in the dark corners of the planes. I mean, maybe the whole story is too fanciful to be anything. but an Abyssal fairy story.

Source: Jon Winter-Holt, mimir.net

The Ungrasped

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