Sigwulf sat, sneering down from the throne that had belonged to his demonic master, Drael. Betrayal was the art of all who follow the path of the Ihll-Dhinnadow and drew power from the pit of Draelunen. For nearly four hundred years, Sigwulf had known no corporeal form, and yet had also been denied the rest that the Order taught would be given by Eald to the honored dead. Now, he sat, pondering the pieces that were in play, and the vast power that he had learned from new masters, deep in the pit, far beyond what even Drael himself dared embrace. The mark of Drael, branded into his chest, itched as he recalled his time in the utter darkness of the pit, his spirit communing with fallen beings shunned from the earliest of times by their creator-god Eald. In his youth, learning the ways of the priesthood, he often wondered if perhaps seeing, touching and experiencing in some the reality of evil could confirm in him the existence of what he was taught was "good". What he had come to know was the loneliness, confusion and hatred of exile, and the burning desire to find some path that would raise him beyond the world he knew. His desire was for nothing short of godhood, to systematically alter and evolve himself, consuming power after power, devil upon demon and more until the time when nothing would be beyond him.