An Inauspicious Nickname

Demons from the Abyss and devils from the Seventh Hell brawled in the shadowy alleyways, a small-scale conflict that ended only when both sides lay dead, discovered only when their corpses began to stink. Such battles, an extension of the cosmic "Blood War" between demons and devils, permeated every corner of the universe, and even in the neutral grounds of Sigil, the war was inescapable.

By the time Azazel reached the bustling market, the local overseer had been waiting impatiently for him.

"Is the mortician finally here? I was beginning to think you'd show up after the world's end. What happened, did you see a three-story goblin on the way? Your speed is, well, remarkable," remarked the bald warrior with a self-important sneer reminiscent of the red-armed ladies on Earth's crosswalks.

"Are you in charge here? Where are the bodies?" Azazel accepted the mockery. To survive at society's bottom meant learning to endure.

"Am I in charge here?" The bald man mocked Azazel's tone while smirking, "Who else would it be if not me? Didn't you know that this district is managed by the 'Chaos Association'? Haven't you heard of the 'Mad Jhadar'?"

Shaking his head, Azazel replied, "I didn't know."

"My god, you are... well, that figures. 'Mad Jhadar' is a nickname I adopted just yesterday. You'd do well to remember it; it'll resound throughout the multiverse someday. How do you like it?"

Azazel rubbed his aching temples. A conversation with rotting corpses might be preferable to dealing with these chaotic folks. "It's quite ordinary. Has anyone in the Chaos Association ever been anything but mad? Can you find one who hasn't? Now, where are the bodies?" Azazel decided to be blunt.

"You... hit the nail on the head! Personality, yes, that's what's needed. Go that way; the bodies are just behind me, down the alley. You'll find them by the stench."

Azazel trundled his cart into the alley, leaving Jhadar mumbling to himself. "Personality, of course. 'Mad' alone isn't enough for Jhadar. Hmm, what should the name be? Oh, corpse carrier, wait!"

"What is it now?"

"I told you to remember 'Mad Jhadar,' right?"

"Yes."

"Well, forget it. I need something with more personality."

"I'll try," Azazel replied listlessly. This inane dialogue threatened to drive him mad. The people of the Chaos Association seemed to have a special knack for it.

"No, not 'try.' You must!"

Azazel, wiser now, hurried deeper into the alley without looking back, leaving Jhadar at the entrance.

The labyrinthine alleys twisted and turned, but following the stench proved accurate guidance.

The battlefield lay deep in the alley, the six corpses reduced to bloody fragments—a grim end for any who died in such forgotten places, torn and mangled beyond recognition. The dreadful intensity of demon and devil fights was palpable, but what made it worse was the scavengers who had picked the remains clean of anything valuable, cursed trinkets included.

Perhaps a hag, a black mage, or a merchant would pass by later. Strange spells often required demon eyes, devil nails, hearts, brains—chaotic and sundry parts. Thus, the bodies had been dissected, their useful or potentially useful parts harvested.

Azazel, left with the remains, chanted a spell, and an invisible magic servant materialized from thin air. Soon, a flesh golem emerged from the cart.

This was the power of magic, the only high-level skill Azazel mastered after decades in this world—a mysterious art he once passionately pursued. As a cleric's son, he had the opportunity to study rigorously and nearly attended "Candlekeep" to formally learn magic under a true mage. But after "the incident," that became impossible, and Azazel remained his father's assistant, wandering the land. Once resigned to being a third-rate mage, three months ago, an invisible servant was his limit. Now, the black leather-bound book with the demon's face contained many dark spells he'd discovered, with the flesh golem being just one.

The battle had been terrifying, and now here he was, trying to survive alone in Sigil, while his poor old father remained trapped in the soul stone, left on the prime material plane.

I will save you, old man—just be patient. As soon as I gather the strength, I'll start looking for the door home.

With the task at hand, Azazel focused on work, clearing the alley with his summoned servant and flesh golem. When the cart was full, and the alley nearly cleaned, the invisible servant disappeared, and the golem lay down inside the cart, his day's labor complete. The remaining scraps were left for the rats—creatures that would appreciate the feast.

As he emerged from the alley, Azazel saw Jhadar again, pacing frantically as if his backside was aflame.

"Ah! There you are, corpse carrier, just in time. I need your counsel on an urgent matter."

Azazel frowned, sorely tempted to throw a fireball in that annoying face. Why did he ever tolerate this madman? In Sigil, the City of Neutrality, conflicts and vendettas were forbidden.

Thus, with gritted teeth, Azazel said, "Spit it out, but make it quick. I'm working here."

"Of course, of course, it won't take long. What should my new nickname be? It's urgent, and it matters. I will soon..." Jhadar stopped mid-sentence, his head cocking to one side, mouth agape, his eyes alight with urgent fervor.

Suddenly, Jhadar unsheathed his sword, the blade gleaming coldly as its tip pressed against Azazel's neck, "Do you think I don't know what you're thinking? Do you think I'm crazy? But I won't hold it against you. Right now, immediately, give me a nickname with personality. Quick, quick, quick! Time is running out!!" He was sweating with the urgency of the matter.

Stunned by the madman's outburst, Azazel regretted his earlier forbearance. Why did he ever put up with this? But his mind quickly got to work; after all, it's too late to consider alternatives when a blade is already at your throat. A nickname with personality, one to satisfy this lunatic. If only he could snuff out this madman and stuff him into the cart. A nickname, a cursed nickname—why must it be so important?

Then it came to him.

"Why must you have a nickname at all? Isn't 'Jhadar' enough by itself?" Azazel countered.

"What do you mean?"

"You, Jhadar! Unique in the entire universe; no nickname could do you justice. People will think, 'Ah, that's Jhadar!' unable to find any adjectives fitting."

"By the seven hells..." Jhadar gasped, his breath quickening—Azazel's words hit the mark. But Jhadar's gaze was fixed not on Azazel but somewhere behind him. "You've got it, a bullseye. I am Jhadar, beyond description, one of a kind. You're the cleverest corpse carrier I've met. A word of advice: stay put. There will be a huge ruckus soon, an earth-shattering battle. And, stop this job—it's going nowhere."

With that, Jhadar rushed past Azazel. Turning around, Azazel witnessed the scene unfold.