Trealzebub was one of many quasits enslaved in what was colloquially
known as The Hive. The Hive was but one component of the war machine of the
great demon general, Zarkin, who was in a constant struggle to defend and
expand his territory within the abyssal plane. An abyss within the abyss,
The Hive was an enormous mine a mile deep where scores of the undead deemed
too weak for combat extracted ore to be furnished into armor and weapons for
the more able-bodied soldiers. Lumbering zombies performed the excavation
of the main tunnels leaving the finer extraction of ore to the tiny quasits
under Zarkin's command.
Almost the entirety of Trealzebub's waking life occurred underground and
that does strange thing to any creature's psyche. The world seemed nothing
more than the enclosed passages of the mine where the only sounds were the
echoes of metal picks striking hard rock.
The quasits of The Hive shared the bond of servitude. Some were even proud
of their work, but all felt the burden of the unseen chains binding them to
the labor. There were rumors whispered in the dormitories of another
existence. A free land. No one knew exactly where it was or how to get
there or if the quasits that disappeared every once in a while from mine
duty escaped or were purged. But hope is a dangerous thing.
Trealzebub was the type who knew how to get things. Somehow he would always
manage to procure double rations or luxurious food that was not offered on
the mess line. He took care to share with the rest of The Hive knowing that
at some point they would be bound to him on account of the repeated favors
he did them. Unbeknownst to the slaves of the mine, Zarkin's armies had
made a bold offensive and overstretched their supply lines. Production at
The Hive was increased to particularly brutal levels and the discontent
festered in the black dust of the tunnels. Talking was forbidden in the
mine, but if you listened closely, you could hear a pattern to the noise of
the picks now. Coded messages sent and received while feeding the war
Word went round that there had been an uprising at the smelting plant where
weak-minded dwarves and duergars had been under the compulsion of their fell
foremen. The more skilled task requiring a live, though still enslaved,
brain. The picks of The Hive buzzed with activity and Trealzebub began to
liberate some of the picks and the sharper shards of ore from the work site.
Several weeks later, Zarkin's rival mounted a fierce counterattack that
forced the demon general to allocate more resources to the front lines
leaving the control of The Hive in the hands of no more than a half dozen
demons who had proved inept at marhsalling their forces on the field of
combat. And it was here that the sonorous pings of the picks called the
slaves of The Hive to action.
At noon on that fateful day, Trealzebub started the slow rhythmic beat that
was picked up by the quasits and then even the lumbering zombies. The
slaves, unified in their work, awaited the signal and with a barbaric yell
uncharacteristic of his size, Trealzebub started the revolt.
Only two of the six foremen were awake and half alert when the mines emptied
and the rebellion started. Fire and brimstone began to rain from the sky as
the alarm sounded. Though inept against other demons, the foremen had a
distinct advantage over the poorly equipped slaves and began a slaughter.
As the resistance lost steam, the slaves retreated to the mines. The narrow
confines allowed only one demon foreman to pass at a time and the lead demon
began the final push.
Trealzebub, sensing the loss at hand, hid in one of the small veins off the
main tunnel. Waiting until the demon had advanced past his position,
Trealzebub thrust his improvised weapon deep into the back of the demon who
let loose a terrifying scream. As the demon fell and the rest of the slaves
gaped in awe, a portal opened visible only to Trealzebub.
Pausing only for a moment, Trealzebub entered the portal and disappeared
from the material abyss forever.
Diminutive in stature, this creature has a devilish glint in his cold,
black eyes. A hook nose claws out of an ugly and contorted visage. Scrawny
limbs dangle at odd angles as a pair of wings labor to keep this creature
afloat. His poor dental hygiene is highlighted by two rows of sparsely
filled teeth that reek of cavities. Not even his hairline escapes his
overall aura of sliminess as he has worked his thin, greasy, black hair into
an unsightly combover.