Looking at the Pit Fiend, one could mistakenly take this particular devil for a brutish type whose only trick is whacking the party with its giant claws. Don't get the wrong idea, it decidedly can (and will) crush you if you get too close, but this is not where it shines.
To start things off, the pit fiend has an impressive array of spells at its disposal, all high level, many of which can be cast at will (like bind soul or divine decree). But, believe it or not, they are not the most impressive tool in that devil's arsenal.
A pit fiend has one singular ability that caught my attention and elevated it to a "campaign level threat" status for me—Devil Shaping. Yep, the Pit Fiend can create devils out of the souls of damned mortals. Devils all the way up to level 20, mind you. It may choose not to, given that any Pit Fiend it creates will not be bound to it, as opposed to lesser devils, however, I ask you to bear with me here.
Devils are lawful, which makes them somewhat amiable towards negotiation. So, let's say a Pit Fiend creates another one in the span of ten days, then convinces it to join it. After another ten days, you have four. Then eight. Within the span of a month, you have eight level-20 fiends. A party of four can easily take a single Pit Fiend. Two might be a challenge, but they should still prevail. Four might be deadly. Eight edges on impossible. Sixteen? You straight-up want to kill your party. And, keep in mind, as long as there are souls to feed to the infernal furnace, the creation of more and more devils can continue.
And let's be realistic, there's no shortage of mortal souls down in Hell.
- Max
Hook 1 (Max) - The Sculptor
In Hell, souls are a currency, and those who can use it quickly rise in the infernal ranks. None are, however, more valued than the devils capable of molding the spirits of mortals into more powerful forms. Prime among them is the Sculptor, a true artist in the field, sought out by all fiendish overlords to boost the strength of their legions with servants.
He lives in a tower made of living, moaning flesh, surrounded by a moat of black tar. Flies and other corpse eaters create a black shroud surrounding the structure, the scent of decay is considered revolting even by some other fiends. Stalking the vast halls of the Tower of Scum are countless monsters wrought by his wicked hand, far more formidable than one might imagine.
The Sculptor enjoys his craft to a great degree, taking jobs from anyone willing to provide more souls. Many have tried to bend him to their will or even kill him, with mostly poor outcomes. It is rumored that one of the dukes that attempted it was twisted into a shadow of his former self and is now bound to guard the Tower as a mindless drone.
And so the Sculptor overlooks his domain, providing Hell with newer and more abominable creations, grinning his wicked grin, scheming and conniving, as his grand plan will soon come to fruition.
Hook 2 (Nemanja) - The Queen's Plea
Between the cities of Arkhast and Blumenkhast, there lies a half-finished pyramid made of black obsidian. For ages untold, it has lain there, and while many rumours shroud the place in mystery, not a mortal alive today can point to its true origin. Many consider it a cursed place, owing to the fact that it lies on a corrupt ley-line and is situated in the only part of the forest not absolutely infested with mischievous but friendly fey-folk.
Several months ago, a minor but rich noble from a faraway land bought the land and put in motion plans to finish the building. While gossip soon blossomed, no one was truly concerned, as the deeply magical land had always been attractive to would-be occultists with money to spend.
That is, until one day when—mortally wounded—the Queen of Summer, mother of all the fey, appeared before the champions, begging them to find a way to stop the noble. Otherwise, she cried, the three-horned one would come back to finish what he started ten thousand years ago.
Hook 3 (TJ) - The Power of Bureaucracy
The tyrant devil drummed his clawed fingers on the edge of his skull throne, the other hand rubbing his forehead as he tried desperately to disperse the headache. He looked up at the phistophilus (he'd already forgotten her name), not bothering to hide the exasperation on his face.
He'd dealt with too many contractors during construction. At last, his brimstone palace was finally complete. Physically, at least. Finalizing the process and giving it a name wasn't as easy as just christening it in the blood of his enemies, apparently—though that was an important step.
"You mean to tell me that I can't call it 'The Palace of Unending Flame?' Why not? I'm Derthakk the Flame King. I went through all the trouble building it with that theme in mind."
"Yes, well, you decided to call yourself the Flame King, I don't remember an official title being approved. 'The Palace of Unending Flame' is taken, you'll have to call it something else."
"Alright, fine. 'The Brimstone Throne.' It has a nice rhyme to it, I could live with that."
"Yes, Kantherrik the Mad, which is his official title, liked it too. It's taken."
"'The Blazing Fortress.'"
"Taken."
"'The Scorching Kingdom.'"
"Taken."
He suggested about a dozen more that were all accounted for in-kind before digging his nails into his throne hard enough to leave gouges in the armrests.
"Perhaps," he said through gritted teeth, "I need some more time to dwell on it. I humbly request that you send me a list of names that are already taken. Until then, get out of my sight before I have to get a DIFFERENT contract devil to file an incident report."
She smiled sweetly and rolled up the contract they'd been poring over, his signature line tragically blank.
"Well, I suppose this might be a bad time for me to remind you that we cannot consider this a legitimate habitation without an agreed-upon name."
He suppressed a snarl. "What does that mean?"
"It means you can't live here, yet."
His frustrated, guttural yell resonated throughout the entirety of the unnamed palace and echoed through miles and miles of the surrounding hellscape.
