Deep in the bowels of a forgotten crypt, buried beneath a mountain no map dares mark, a demon lies in torment starved beyond imagining, bound in chains wrought from cursed iron and soaked in the blood of saints. Once a towering force of destruction, now he is a shell of what he once was. His flesh, stretched thin and gaunt over splintered bones, clings desperately to his frame, twitching with each shallow breath. Sweat clings to his cracked, scorched skin in glistening rivulets, pooling in the hollows of his sunken collarbones and dripping from the sharp tips of his trembling claws. His lips, blistered and curled back in a silent snarl, glisten with drool thick, viscous, and unending, oozing past broken fangs and down his quivering chin to mingle with the filth below. The chains groan with every pitiful motion, digging deeper into the raw, exposed muscle of his limbs, their ancient runes burning endlessly, sapping his strength and will with cruel constancy. His eyes, once pits of roaring flame, are dim now, barely glowing embers flickering in hollow sockets, darting about with the haunted desperation of a caged beast too long denied its nature. Each second is agony, a trembling eternity of weakness and humiliation. His entire body quakes with involuntary shudders whether from hunger, the fever of magical suppression, or the raw hatred barely simmering in what remains of his soul, no one can say. He is not resting; he cannot. There is no sleep for such a creature, only the gnawing, infinite pain of confinement and the ragged, labored breaths of a being who should not cannot be allowed to die, yet has long since stopped living.