Council of Despair

The Council of Despair

Location: Abyss / Pazunia

Oh, the Council of Despair, it’s a name that sounds just about as pleasurable as a tooth extraction without the aid of whiskey, ain’t it? You see, berk, it’s one of the grandest charades in the multiverse, a place where the big shots of the Abyss and the servants of powers come to chinwag, and to backstab. But don’t let the theatrics fool you, cutter—this place is as real as razorvine and twice as deadly. Nestled in the heart of Sonu-Aar’ri, that flawed gem of a capital of Pazunia, this council hall is a monument to ambition, betrayal, and the kind of chaos only the tanar’ri could dream up. Picture a sprawling, jagged cathedral carved from obsidian and bone, its spires clawing at the blood-red sky like it’s trying to scratch its way out of this hellhole. The whole place hums with malice, a low, guttural vibration that worms its way into your skull and makes you question why you ever thought coming here was a good idea.

Inside, it’s no better. The main hall is set up like a vast amphitheater, its walls lined with jagged ledges where the Abyssal high-ups perch like vultures waiting for a fresh corpse. The floor is a mosaic of shattered glass and molten lava veins that pulse faintly, as if the Abyss itself is keeping time with the council’s treachery. At the centre stands the Black Throne—a grotesque amalgamation of writhing souls and jagged iron—reserved for Demogorgon himself. Not that he bothers to show up often; when you’re the (current) Prince of Demons, you let your lackeys do the dirty work. And speaking of lackeys, let’s talk about Axian the Traitor (planar molydeus tanar’ri [he/him] / CE). Or the Loyal, depending on who you ask. This molydeus tanar’ri is the self-styled “moderator” of this madhouse, though calling him that is like calling a pit fiend “mildly unpleasant.” Axian dreams big—too big for his own good—but his vision of Abyssal unity is about as likely as a baatezu charity gala. He’s got more faces than Tiamat, flip-floppin’ between loyalties as it suits him. In his dreams, Axian envisions the council as a place of Abyssal harmony, where agreements are reached and bonds formed between the high-ups of the tanar’ri, bless his naive (and poisonous) heart.

Officially, the Council of Despair exists to coordinate strategies for the Blood War—that eternal slugfest between baatezu and tanar’ri that keeps both sides too busy to bother with conquering everything else. Unofficially? It’s a stage for power plays, assassination plots, and enough backstabbing to make Sigil’s Hive Ward look like a friendly picnic. Every year, the Council hosts what might be generously called an “election” for the Prince of Demons. Anyone—and I mean anyone—can challenge Demogorgon for his title. The rules are simple: challengers must make it to the Black Throne alive (no small feat), and Demogorgon must entertain their attempt without preemptively turning them into Abyssal mulch. Whether it’s by force, cunning riddles, or some bizarre appeal to conscience (yes, a deva even tried once), challengers take their shot at unseating him. Spoiler alert: no one’s succeeded yet…

Now don’t think for a second that this annual spectacle is just about tradition or fair play. It serves a deeper purpose—one so twisted it could only come from the Abyss itself. You see, the Council isn’t just about keeping Demogorgon on his toes; it’s about keeping everyone on edge. By allowing these challenges—and by extension, endless scheming—the Council ensures that no one tanar’ri grows too powerful or complacent. It’s chaos weaponised, and a perpetual churn that keeps the Abyss from collapsing under its own weight, keeps its bigwigs sharp, while also ensuring no one ever truly wins.

Ah, but there’s a curse hanging over this place too of course—a poetic little twist that even Axian doesn’t fully understand. You see, cutter, every decision made in the Council chamber is doomed to unravel. Agreements fall apart fast as a Xaositect’s promises; alliances forged here seem as sturdy as wet parchment. Some whisper it’s because Pazunia itself rejects this attempt at order; others say it’s an ancient hex laid down by some forgotten power—or baernoloth—who wanted to ensure that demons would never unite against their enemies. Whatever the truth, it means Axian’s hope of Abyssal harmony is just that: a crack-pipe dream.

So there you have it—the Council of Despair in all its wretched glory. A place where ambition burns brighter than any torch but always fizzles out before it can light the way forward. If you’ve got the stones (or lack the sense) to visit, remember this: in the Council chamber, every smile hides a dagger and every word is a trap waiting to be sprung. Keep your back to a wall (if you can find one that doesn’t bite), and maybe you’ll leave with your hide intact. Or not. After all, this is the Abyss we’re talking about, cutter. It’s a long shot, but then, the Council of Despair was built on long shots, wasn’t it?

Source: Jon Winter-Holt, with thanks to Taras for constructive feedback