To the Esteemed Pusillin,
Arch-Prankster of the Infernal Order,
and Probably Still on Fire Somewhere,

I hope this letter finds you intact, or at least reassembled. I’ve been contemplating something recently—not out of sentiment, don’t flatter yourself—but out of a need for clarification that only a plane-hopping, hell-born nuisance like yourself might be qualified to answer.

With the fall of Sargeras and the Legion’s proverbial chains broken (exploded, really), I find myself wondering: what now? What becomes of the demon? You’re hardly a species known for cooperation unless held at knife-point by a larger, angrier demon, and most of the larger, angrier ones seem to be either dead, banished, or politically unavailable.

Who’s in charge these days? Is there some imp council with tiny chairs and even tinier daggers? Do mo’args unionize? Are felguards filing for independent contractor status? You creatures had a hierarchy once—flawed, brutal, effective. Now? Chaos. And while I appreciate chaos, I prefer to understand the rules I’m breaking.

When a demon is dismissed—banished, unsummoned, poofed—where do they go? Is there a universal holding pen for exiles and overstimulated shivarras? Do you return to your home realms? And if so… whose realm is it now? Has anyone bothered sorting that out, or is it full-scale anarchic power vacuum?

I’m not asking because I care, Pusillin. I’m asking because things are quieter than they should be. Too many void-things sniffing around old fel ground, and I’d rather not wake up one morning to find half my reagents converted into a whispering altar of “He Who Hungers Loudly at 3 AM.”

So. Enlighten me. Where do demons stand now that the whip is gone? What’s next for the infernal diaspora?

Also—if you mention murlocs again in this reply, I will hex you into a decorative fruit bowl.

Intellectually intrigued,
Teranca Rymden
Artificer of Demonic Complications
Senior Recluse, Rymden Line
Purveyor of Questions Nobody Else Thinks to Ask (Because They’re Cowards)

To Her Arcane Eminence, Teranca Rymden,
Queen of Creepy Questions and Blood That Hisses,

Oh finally, you ask me something worth scribbling on with actual ink instead of… whatever ichor was in that last batch. (No judgment, but it blinked at me.)

What a delicious question. What do the demons do now that daddy’s gone and the green fire insurance has lapsed?
Short answer: panic, posture, and punch each other in increasingly creative ways.
Long answer: well well well…

The Legion was never a family. It was a pyramid scheme with fireballs. Sargeras was at the top screaming about Order and Cosmic Balance (while eating planets like candy), and the rest of us were below, clawing each other’s eyes out over who got to press the big green button.

Now? No Sargeras. No Archimonde. No Kil’jaeden (gods, what a drama queen). The hierarchy snapped like a fel crystal under a doomguard’s ass. So what do we do?

We freelance.

Some demons are trying to go “legit.” Whole packs of succubi are running seduction cults in mortal cities. Mo’args are trying to sell their flesh-grafting services as “extreme body mods.” Felhounds are just… still biting things. (Bless.)

Others are clinging to the old model. Pit lords screaming “I AM THE NEW DARK TITAN” while imp swarms loot their treasure and set their eyebrows on fire. It’s adorable.

As for going “home”—
That’s the best part. Most demons don’t have a home anymore. We were ripped from them long ago, bound to the Twisting Nether like angry glitter in a cosmic storm. Some try to find old pocket realms they once called theirs, but time moves weird in the Nether, and usually someone else has already moved in and declared themselves “Supreme Flesh Pope” or something equally offensive.

When a demon gets unsummoned or banished? It’s not so much “sent home” as “violently flung back into the Nether,” where we reform (if we can) and get to stew in rage and existential confusion until someone drags us out again.

Do we want to go back? Depends on the demon. Imps like me? We thrive on chaos, pranks, and medium-scale explosions. We’re having the time of our lives. Others? Not so much. There are infernals with existential dread now, Teranca. Infernals. They sit in fire pits muttering, “Who am I without orders?” and honestly, it’s hilarious.

So yes. It’s chaos. Delicious, free-range, ethically sourced chaos.

But watch your back. The power vacuum means something worse will crawl in eventually. It always does. Probably a void-something with too many syllables in its name and a love for abstract screaming. We’ll all miss the days when things just wanted to incinerate you for fun instead of convert your atoms into faith.

Kisses and minor combustions,
Pusillin
Freelance Menace | Imp of Opportunity
Chairman of the Order of Infernal Mischief (O.I.M., not legally binding)
P.S. I added murloc bile to your last reagent shipment. For luck.