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[Thrax]

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"Discipline" he called it, or sometimes "edification"... another example of his duplicity, for it was torture and could be recognized as nothing but. Thrax accepted his lot without complaint. After all, what choice did he have? Why give his god any additional pleasure through his futile cries of anger, remorse, and pain?

Oggaroth had clipped his wings. Flight was now impossible; he had to walk like all the others except the guardian minions with their whips and clubs that watched over the denizens of this hellish place. He accepted that, too, without protest.

Time was no factor in this realm. Days could seem as years and years as days. There seemed to be no boundaries to space. Oggaroth, at a whim, could create realms that resembled anything on the physical plane. Most often he made dark and sinister places, placing his unwilling subjects in them to carry out difficult and painful tasks under the most adverse conditions over and over again, to break their spirit and humiliate them.

In keeping with that, Thrax had been given three tasks to perform.

The first had been to carry an enormous boulder up a steep and lofty mountain slope. As he neared the top, the boulder would become heavier and heavier, making it harder and harder for him to move. When he was within scant feet of the summit, it would invariably tilt to one side and out of his grasp. He would have to toss it away, watching as it would roll back down the mountain to stop at the bottom. Oggaroth would be waiting for him there with folded arms, and would only speak the words in a monotone voice: "Love is frustration. It is an impossible burden. It will not go where you wish to take it; it will flee from you just when you need it most." Thrax knew that the only solution was to admit defeat and repeat the words before he could find relief. As stubborn as he was, he surrendered quickly to the inevitable and was taken to the next task.

He stood on the edge of a barren desert, baking in a blazing sun. In the far distance he saw an object that he was told was a brazier filled with coal, like the one that stood beside him having living coals of fire. He was given a lit torch and was told to take the torch across the desert to light the coals in the brazier with it. It seemed simple enough, but Thrax knew better and he was not to be mistaken. As he trudged across the sand winds began to blow from all directions, stirring up the sand, whipping it back and forth around him. Before he could reach his destination the winds would blow out the flames of his torch and he would be forced to return to the burning brazier to light it again. He tried this several times, nearly succeeding once or twice. In one instance he was in the very act of lowering the torch onto the dead coals when the sand-borne winds blew it out. In despair, Thrax stopped. "And the point of this is?" he asked out loud. Carried on the winds was the voice of Oggaroth. "Love is fickle. It will not burn forever. It will burn brightly for a time, for days and years, but it will eventually burn out, no matter what you do." From his own experience, he knew that statement was true. He nodded in agreement.

The third task was to stand in a gigantic arena, one that looked almost exactly like that of Umbra's necromancer arena, while a single imp wielding a fiery dagger was given permission to attack him and stab him with it as often as it wished. For any imp, normally on the receiving end of pain from a much larger and more powerful daemon such as he, the opportunity would naturally evoke a fit of delightful ecstasy, and this one was no different. It took to it with relish and abandon. Thrax's hands and legs were tied with unbreakable cords and he could only flail uselessly as the tiny burning dagger poked holes into his leathery flesh. The imp giggled uncontrollably, darting in and out to strike at its huge target, veering away as Thrax's huge arms sought to smash it. Becoming bored with mere stabs, it soon began carving intricate tattoos on his back. For what seemed to be days, Thrax bore this "discipline" without a word, but eventually, maddened by pain and frustration, he cried out for help and relief. Oggaroth's voice was heard above the imp's incessant mocking laughter: "Love is pain, Thraxanduril. Those you love hate you and will always hate you. They will thank you when you help them, but when they find out what you are, what you believe and what you do, they will turn on you. Since you wish to love, then you must learn to live with pain. Disavow love and I will release you from the torment. Continue to embrace it as real, and you must learn how to live with pain," Oggaroth replied, nonchalantly.

Bleeding, bitter, but as yet unbroken, Thrax gritted his teeth. He knew there must be someone who could truly love unselfishly, asking nothing in return, even one such as he, and he would wait for them to come.

And then he would have revenge on his god.