BAALZEPHON, the Minister of Supply, is one of the two most ancient surviving members of the Eight, and the one who remains most free of entanglements with Baator's nobility. Baalzephon believes she most purely serves the purpose for which the Dark Eight were created, reducing the power of the Lords of the Nine.
Weaknesses: Baalzephon's arrogance has no equal in the rest of the Eight. She treats her ministry as if it were a feudal state and she its unquestioned lord. At the bottom of the Ministry of supply�s ranks this is literally true, with spinagon peasants grimly tending herds of stench kine and petitioners, their situation as desperate as that of their mortal counterparts. In higher ranks are the ambassadors, knights, and merchant-princes who visit the courts of powerful entities throughout the planes to garner trade deals and contracts. Baalzephon herself wears the regalia of a mighty emperor, the solar orb and crown of Aerdy (a nation of the material plane that worships Baalzephon as Baalzi, god of wealth) her frequent symbol. Baalzephon is the only member of the Dark Eight that can afford to treat the Lords of the Nine (save the Deepest) with contempt. She does have an alliance with Hextor, a power of Acheron, who helped her create her army of undead animuses. In exchange, she razed a rakshasa city, something that does not endear her to that race (although they must trade with her representatives nonetheless). This, too, can be exploited.
Baalzephon�s Goals:
1. To adequately supply the baatezu and the Blood War with weapons, foodstuffs, goods and services.
2. To tend to her mortal cult and become an actual deity.
3. To hide her true appearance from everyone, including herself.
5. To cultivate and expand her mercantile empire.
6. To remain completely independent in all things.
Part One: Dispater has an idea.
On a Tuesday, in the Third Horn of Benighted Malediction, the Archduke Dispater decided to organize the many petty barons and courtiers of his realm into a parliament.
He confessed to one of his biographers (shortly before burning out the osyluth's mind with an iron brand) that he wearied of the endless feuds and inevitable complaints that came from the noble houses and fiefs of his infinite city and the likewise infinite terrain surrounding it. The archfiend hoped that establishing a forum for them to argue among themselves would both make his domain run both more smoothly and - and this was most important - give him some peace for once.
So it was that on the following Thursday (which, because Dispater had ordered the calendars shifted, was in the period known as the Fifth Hook of Everlasting Corruption) the first session of the Parliament of Dis was convened. The Prime Minister at the time, as elected by the House of Lords and duly ratified by an extremely impatient and fidgity Dispater, was a female pit fiend who went by the name Baalzephon. Most thought the name a bit masculine for a female fiend, but Baalzephon had been through several moltings as a male and decided she didn't care for it. She much preferred to be a beautiful yet domineering woman of nearly human appearance, but was at the time willing to assume her true form as a morbidly obese pit fiend with an overbite, a lisp, and a drooling problem if it was absolutely required of her. Now, pit fiends are of course designed to have overbites and drooling problems; a lisp comes with the territory and few can be called svelte, but Baalzephon was hypersensitive to her condition and most decided it diplomatic to avoid the subject when she was around.
When she wasn't Prime Ministering, Baalzephon owned a palatial estate in midtown Dis in one of several competing districts all called Velvet Glove. She also had a country villa in the hills of Cold Flame several days travel from the Iron City's outer gates, but she hardly ever visited it except when she was trying to impress people. Most of the time it sat vacant, if you didn't count the large staff of cooks, butlers, maids, tailors, stylists, interior decorators, grooms, and the hamatula who came by once a week to feed the captive village of Primes that she kept in her study. None of these counted in Baalzephon's mind.
Baalzephon got her Prime Minister job through the process of socializing and schmoozing so widely that she was hated equally by pretty much everyone, which meant she lacked the specific enemies that everyone else had picked up in the course of their schemes and misadventures. However she got it, Baalzephon took full advantage of her new career, browning the noses of a fresh cluster of sycophants before the first session was even over.
Part Two: Baalzephon makes the parliament into something more than Dispater expected.
It was Baalzephon's idea that the Parliament of Dis could become something more than a place for Dispater's supplicants to complain to one another. She thought that if being the center of attention in Dis was amusing, how much more diverting it would be if the parliament became a place where people from other layers and planes could come and whine about whatever it was they cared about that day. At her urging, the parliament put it to a vote and agreed to her plan.
Soon there were beings of every sort in the many-sided Parliamental building in Dis hoping for a (nonexistant) chance at getting an audience with the archduke himself. Instead, they were treated to continuing promises from Baalzephon and her cronies - if they do this and that, they might get a personal interview.
The parliament became a very important place indeed, and soon visitors were jostling for interviews not with Dispater, but with Baalzephon.
Part Three: Impressions from Baalzephon's career:
A lemure, blown about like a dry leaf in the cruel winds of Minauros, tormented by punishing furies. All the time thinking - I am free, I am free.
- It's time for promotions, sniggered a hamatula. Look lively, you two.
- I am free, thought one, baring its charred, blackened teeth. The other rushed toward it, its semimolten flesh jiggling as its arms flopped wildly around.
They grappled for a time, chewing off melted, grime-covered digits from one anothers' limbs. At last it was over, with one's jaws contentedly chewing on the remains of the other's misshapen skull.
- I am free, it thought. And triumphant. It feels good.
A spinagon loading weapons on to a supply wagon. It secretes a few in a hidden cache and sells them to its fellows later, on the side.
A hamatula's first time in Dis, absorbing the sights and songs, the horrors and surprises. A bifurcated insect inspects the compartment hidden within a soulshell. The soul groans as the top of its skull is pried off.
- I hope this meets your satisfactions, the hamatula oozes.
- Yes, the insectoid gestures, amazed.
A cornugon supervising the construction of communication lines through Pluton. One line goes through a yugoloth citadel without their awareness. An army of cacofiends is driven out of another site.
A cornugon captaining a fleet of balloons through Carceri, victorious. It feels good. It was then the cornugon was tagged with the vainglorious name of Baalzephon.
A pit fiend toying with chartsandgraphs and bullitin boards, ever-shifting, representing the larva markets, subject worlds, and the rivers of blood and bile and infernal cataracts of hot testosterone and cold semen. A call comes in, herself in an alternate timeline wanting to dump a billion joyopals into this everwhen in order to artificially raise the price in that one - can we make a deal?
- Oh, certainly, there are always deals to be made. I have no use for a billion joyopals, but I'm sure there's something...
A palace of basalt and brass, floating above an active volcano. - My lord, grins Baalzephon, bowing low.
- What do you want? Belial asks with irritation. Behind him, his daughter's flames burn higher.
- Only access, my lord, says Baalzephon. There are many people who want to speak with you.
A magnificent golden throne. On it, a pit fiend is having her feet massaged by osyluths, blinded to enhance the sensitivity of their hands. The venom of their tails is a muscle relaxant. A delegation of specially tailored distortions of the financial markets have returned from their adventures in the far multiverse. They report on their successes and she sends them back to the breeding farms. She needs forty thousand more just like them, only better, in a half hour.
- Lady Prime Minister? asks a supplicant (naked but for a few strategically implanted joyopals) a decree from the Parliament of Dis endorsing the manna of the ecstasy locust would be much appreciated, and would open the markets of the Hovering Sea and the Diminished Moon.
- Get out! Out of my sight, you excerement. Messenger! Inform the majority whip that the ecstasy locust should be exterminated forewith.
A woman with fires dancing deep in her eyes. Almost contemptuously, she rubs the sign of the ninefold eye of Baator that has been tattooed on her forehead. - There have been reports, she begins, stretching lazily, that you have been manipulating the markets of the planes in ways not entirely conducive to our needs.
She smiles widely, flashing white teeth.
- That's right, Baalzephon screams. I am the economy, do you understand? I am the economy!
Lady Fierana goes home, displeased. The subsequent war is fought on the inverted slopes beneath the first furnace of Gehenna entirely by living statures. It is short and decisive, and Baalzephon is molested no more.
A pit fiend, shrouded in darkness and silence. Two eyes peer out, but they are starless voids. - I understand you wish a meeting, it says, the words balanced on the edge of conciousness, in the border regions between primal fear and the eternal death-wish.
- Yes, that's right. It seems, mr Cantrum, that you are recruiting pit fiends into a secret fraternity that means to take over the government. I want in, Cantrum. You can't shut me out.
The voids narrow. - I'm recruiting from the edges, Lady Prime Minister. Mine is a brotherhood of the fringes, of the disposessed. We seek not revolution, only a voice for the voiceless. Forgive me, but your voice is already heard clearly across the planes.
- That's shit, Cantrum, and you know it. Zimimar, Zaebos, Zapan - these are not underheard minorities we are talking about. Furcas is even involved - Furcas! He's so far up Dispater's waistcoat that he's practically another tail. You're not leaving until I get a piece of this, Cantrum.
- Perhaps this conversation will go more smoothly once you deactivate that mimir.
- Oh, Morwel's tits. Fine. There you (record ends)
Marching directly through an iron portal in Acheron to the blood-plains of Avernus, Hextor, God of Strife, led his army into the outer wastes of Hell.
On his left side was Venger Naelax, an ancient half-fiendish general who had conquered many lands. On his right was Ivid I, a king who had delivered an empire to his faith.
He stopped briefly at Azharul, Tiamat�s lair, to chat with the Dragon Queen about old times, but she seemed surprisingly withdrawn and sullen. Even Venger couldn�t draw her out, and they were old comrades.
Passing through the great gates at the edge of Dis, his army brazenly crushed any wraiths, shades, and minor fiendlings that strayed in their path.
As his army reached a certain square, Hextor paused, looked around, and frowned. At last he sighed and began to speak, his words creating echoes like a sword against an iron shield:
�In the name of Tiamat and Lucifuge, by the banner I carry as herald of Hell, I summon forth a pit fiend from the darkest depths!�
A spectral glimmer in the air, like a multifaceted gemstone made of magical force, began to drift away from the six-armed god of battles. A lizardlike demarax, sunning itself on a nearby rooftop, flicked out its tongue and swallowed it.
Hextor cursed, and destroyed the demarax with a glance. He tried again:
�By the name of the pact which binds us, I command a pit fiend to appear!�
�Hold yer horses!� called out a quavering voice from above. An awkward, rotund figure began descending from a nearby flight of stairs with the aid of a cane. �I ain�t as young as I used t�be.�
The army stared in disbelief as the newcomer painstakingly made his way down the rickety staircase. �Most of t�others are away at Parliament,� the fiend explained as he went. �I stayed behind, on accounta my gout.�
He was, indeed, a pit fiend, but a strangely withered one with spectacles and white whiskers sticking from odd angles from his wrinkled, scaly face.
�The Parliament of Dis still exists?� Hextor asked hopefully. �I seek Baalzephon, the Prime Minister. She has procured certain services for me in the past.�
The pit fiend screwed up his face even tighter and began to laugh in his reedy, quavering voice. �Baalzephon the Prime Minister,� he choked. �Haven�t heard that one in a while. Mister, you want to talk with Baalzephon of the Dark Eight, you gonna be waiting a long time. The god Enoch the Thunderer tried t�see Baalzephon. After staying in her waiting room for too long, his people were wiped out by a neighboring tribe and he died. Four centuries later she called him in, and when he didn�t show up she was so peeved she blacklisted his entire pantheon.�
�I am Hextor, little baatezu,� explained Hextor with uncharacteristic patience. �God of havoc, lord of the scourge, Herald of Hell. She will see me.�
The pit fiend just laughed harder. Annoyed, Hextor sliced him in half.
�See here, Hector,� said a tall baatezu with long, wicked claws and a misshapen head. �You can�t do that to a pit fiend. Even him. Against the rules.�
�I am Hextor!� Hextor howled. �I will be commanded by no one!� He and his army cut a bloody swath through the city, searching fruitlessly for the missing Parliament. Beyond the range of their swords, life in the Iron City continued unaffected, scarcely taking note.
Eventually, Hextor�s forces encountered another army. The god ordered his troops to a halt.
�Hail,� said Hextor to the opposing legions, barely making them out through the lunchtime rush. �What is identity and your intention?�
A fiendish-looking god stepped forward. �Iyachtu Xvim,� he introduced himself. �I�m new here. You wouldn�t know where I could get in touch with a Baalzephon, would you?�
�No,� said Hextor. �How long have you been looking?�
Iyachtu Xvim made a frustrated grimace. �Six weeks, mate.�
�I can�t help you,� Hextor growled.
�Fine,� said Iyzchtu. �If you�ll excuse us, then, we�ve got lots more searching to do. Bloody city seems practic�ly infinite. If we don�t find this Baalzephon devil soon, me father�s going to imprison me on the Material Plane, mark me words.�
�Have a good day,� said Hextor stiffly. The army of Iyachtu Xvim left, and Hextor allowed a few of his shoulders to sag.
�He was obviously an idiot,� Venger said consolingly.
�I know,� Hextor moaned. �But still - what�s happened to this city? Baalzephon used to want to be found.�
�There, there,� said Ivid I, patting his god on the back.
�Hold on a minute,� said Lord Venger. �There it is.� He pointed a taloned finger slightly toward the left.
�Oh,� said Hextor God of Strife, seeing the terrible runes that announced the Parliament�s presence. �Huh. Let�s go, then.�
The Parliamentary Building of Dis had once been a place of stern geometries with nine faces in honor of the Lords of Baator. Now it was almost circular, with two points like the stern and prow of a ship.
��Dis is a city of commerce,�� Hextor quoted beneath his breath. ��In it can be purchased anything you can imagine.� Well, it better be.�
No one was guarding the Parliament Hall�s massive doors, so Hextor let himself in. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he had his army wait outside.
Inside there was a vast amphitheatre with hundreds of seats - no, thousands, and more than that. On the seats were entities from every part of the known planes; xills and salamander nobles; liches and nightshades; tsnng and malakim; qlippoth and tzaretch; incarnates and platonics; umber hulks and ghost elves; yugoloths and gehreleths; githyanki and bariaurs; mapmakers, merchants, and lesser deaths; gods, demigods, and anti-heroes of every description. And the Parliament itself, pit fiends and nobles from across the circle of Dis. A stout pit fiend baliff was calling for order.
And when a baatezu craves order, whole planes run with blood.
When the slaughter was over, the baliff cleared its throat. �Make way for His Excellency, the Prime Minister of Dis. Duke Titivilus.�
Hextor�s mouth opened in surprise. He tried to shout something, but his divine voice was drowned out by the crowd.
Titivilus stepped to the podium with that dancing, skipping walk of his that Hextor knew and loathed. Of course some allowances have to be made when one has two goat hooves instead of feet, but Titivilus took it to an extreme.
�Welcome, friends.� Titivilus� voice was sticky and honey-sweet. �I trust we�ll have a productive session today.�
��I trust we�ll have a productive session today,�� Hextor mocked. �Baalzephon never said things like that. She took charge. She demanded a productive session, and a productive session she got.�
A female tiefling sitting next to him laughed and slapped her knee. Hextor glared at her.
�Our first order of business,� Titivilus droned on. �Is a summary of yesterday�s order of business. But before that, Furcas would like to recite a poem.�
Hextor snarled and stood up. �This is useless,� he roared. �I�m leaving!�
No one bothered to glance up as the god of war maneuvered his way through the narrow aisles, straining toward the door.
At last, outside. One look at his face and his army knew better than to ask questions. Silently they wound their way back through the shrieking, shifting, mazelike metropolis of Dis. And they went home.