A lemure is a pathetic, trembling mound of molten flesh, the base sediment of the Nine Hells. These wretched creatures are the souls of mortal sinners who have been stripped of identity and remade into mindless, quivering vessels of pain. Lacking eyes to see or a voice to scream, they wander the desolate wastes of Avernus in a state of perpetual, incoherent agony, driven only by a primal instinct to obey the commands of their diabolical superiors. These fiends serve as the infinite fodder of the Blood War, forming a tide of stinking, regenerating meat that grinds against the demonic hordes. Within the Hells, a lemure is nearly impossible to permanently extinguish; unless struck down by celestial power or sanctified steel, its mangled form eventually knits back together to resume its eternal servitude. They are the raw clay of the infernal hierarchy, waiting for a greater devil to promote them into more cunning, lethal shapes. Travelers in the lower planes might encounter a lemure that refuses to fight, instead clutching a tarnished locket or a scrap of lace—the last, flickering ember of the mortal life it once led. Such a creature might follow a party with pathetic persistence, its presence a grim omen of the fate awaiting those who barter their souls for fleeting power.