The Major Locales of the Crimson Sea

Holy Vesturia - Seat of the Holy Covenant

Of all places sacred to men, none shall be held as high as Grand Vesturia, the Birth-Place of the Great Blood-Covenant forged between men and the Gods-to-Be. Its tall spires scrape the very skies, its statuary raise profligate hands to receive blessings from above, its people offer their all to the Grand Church of Blood-Communion.

And all are lead in Worship by his Most Holiness, Pontif Sanguinius the First and Only, forever and ever, Amen; who forged the Promise on which all who live on the Shores of the Crimson Sea do dwell. And blessed too be his Crimson Ministers who tend to the herds of the High Shepard of men.

During the day, Vesturia is a quiet bustle as humans tend to themselves and their daily tasks, underneath the watchful eyes of the Crimson ministers, who are jealous of their flock as a husband is jealous of his wife. In the darkened manors and homes of the Gods-to-Be, the Crusaders of the Covenant play at high society in grand symposiums and soirees. At night, men huddle in their homes, and try to shut out the sounds of the bloody violence, the screams of demons, and the Victory Hymns and exultations of the Crusaders. 

The Church of the Holy Covenant rules all in Holy Vesturia, as it should be, for only through his Most Holiness can men ever hope to escape the horrors of the Night.

Sight-Seeing in the Red-Walled City of the Holy Covenant:

- The Mighty Cathedral of the Glories of the Blood-Pact - Where his Most Holiness, the First and Only (forever and ever, Amen) Pontif forged the Covenant with men, and the First of the Red Ministers joined him in holy brotherhood. Its tall, white-stone walls stand out against the dull greys and blacks of the Cities, an endless reminder of the Dominion of the Church.

- The Conflagration of the Apostate - Once a glorious estate of much wealth and the home of a noble lineage, the current occupant (who has lived there for over two centuries now) performed an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the Church: he poisoned himself. It was such a sin, Pontif Sanguinius himself came down from the Cathedral of Glories wreathed in wrath and power, and laid down upon the Noble and his house a terrible curse. Now it stands forever, as does its owner, only they are wreathed in an eternal flame, ever burning in parts, ever smouldering in places, always blossoming with smoke, forever and ever, until such a time as his sins have been scoured away in cleansing fire.

- Wolf-Pyre Plaza - A great square at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Cathedral of Glories, its centre is blackened and charred, for it is where the Beasts and Demons of the Night are burned as the morning sun is only just daring to rise, to the furious jeers and cheers of the Crusaders still high on the Night's Hunt-Lust.
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The Bone-Metropolis of Demise

Built by those who would escape the Tyranny of the Church, Demise was constructed in the one place the Church would never find them, in the titanic, skeletal remains of the so-called "arch-demon". Though now the Covenant are well aware of the dissidents, they can no longer easily crush them, thus they bide their time and plot the downfall of the Corpse-City.

The skull of the Demon has been fashioned into a kind of Anti-Cathedral, the eyes and nostrils filled in with stained-glass, and the teeth hollowed out into the pipes of a Great Organ, played only when the Red Ministers of the Communion that are captured face their now traditional execution; a stake through the heart and decapitation. 

The City proper is built in the hollow of the Rib-Cage, the tall off-white towers rising in their arcs above the homes and buildings, fashioned into Watch-Towers. The Left Leg and the Right Arm have been fashioned into the Western and Eastern Wharfs respectively, as the Right Leg has long been lost to the Waves of the Living Sea. The Shoulder Blades, flanking the Anti-Cathedral, now form the home of the Ivory School, and the Noble Houses of the City Founders. The Pelvis is the foundation of the grand Fortress of the City, and stands as their great Fastness against the Churches Crusaders. The City has now spread beyond the confines of the almighty bones now, and only continues to grow from those that escape Vesturia, and the growth of hope and rebellion against Pontif Sangunius.

Their true strength, though they do not know it, lies in the Ivory School, who practice the lost and ancient art of Bone-Carving. They have created and discovered many tools that are particularly effective against the Gods-to-Be, and when the Church finally makes their move against Demise, they will find it a much more stalwart foe that any guessed it to be.

The Leviathan Yards

Huge, Pallid, and Ever-Squirming and Writhing, beasts like beached whales mount the shore leaking foul fluids into the furious sea, and birth the Flesh-Hulks that can sail the Living Sea.

The Harbour-Masters of the Leviathan Yards are some of the most feared (and rich) individuals of the Crimson Sea, second perhaps even to The First and Only (forever and ever Amen) Pontif of the Church of the Communion. Certainly they are second in influence, as they sell the Living Ships that alone are capable of surviving the Attentions of the Crimson Sea for any length of time without cracking open like a nut. They charge exorbitant prices, which are duly paid for now.

They are something like a cross between Spiders and Lobsters, standing up like a crooked old man, most of their limbs tucked away like a mental-patient while the main arms constantly scribble in their record books, their multi-facet eyes dancing this way and that and their mouths full of articulated teeth chitter quietly even as they speak to you. They are thin and long, unlike their worker-soldier brethren, who are much like them, only shorter and fatter, like crabs in the way the Harbour Masters are like Lobsters. Their thick, almost lacquered armour plates have been know to turn aside even the heaviest sword blows, though their underbellies have proven to be relatively soft.

This isn't to say that they aren't also feared in battle. Most every power on the Crimson Sea has tried once or more to take the Leviathan Yards for themselves. All have failed, the Nerve-Arresters and Claws of the Worker-Soldiers proving devastatingly effective even against the terrible power of the Crimson Crusaders. Mercifully, they have neither the numbers nor the inclination for conquest, as far as is known and hoped.

The Supra-Human Republics

The last (and most recently founded) of the Mighty Powers of the Crimson Sea, the Supra-Human Republics are feared by just about everyone. Of course, the Red Church of Vesturia is the most powerful and feared of the cities of the Living Sea, but the Supra-Human republics have proven themselves their equal in terms of the fear they spread, in the way they deal with prisoners, in their ever-changing and unpredictable power struggles, and in the doom they represent for Man-Kind.

They are the pinnacle of Human Evolution, as they tell everyone, beyond the Gods-to-Be of the traitor-state, beyond the Homunculi of the Alchemists, beyond the Star-Priests, beyond the Elves, beyond all and any! Their biology is as perfect as can ever be attained, neither age nor sickness nor exposure will ever slay one of their number, and their unimpeachable flesh is left behind by the Crusaders of the Church, evidence of their superiority!

In one aspect they still seem human though, they squabble endlessly and constantly. The Republics are fractitious in the extreme, and new havens are constantly being born left and right, and coups are levied against the new most treacherous and decadent of the Doges, only to be replaced by a Doge twice as corrupt and reprobate again. Trade continues to thrive in the turmoil though, and thus the Apex of Men supports many of their lesser kind in orbiting towns.

Of course, there is much war made between the Republics and Vesturia, the one enemy the Doges can actually ally as a group against for any amount of time. Such wars are often short-lived, as the Crimson Crusaders must always return to The City of Red Walls before the fall of night, and the Doges can never actually organise any kind of co-ordinated assault against the Holy City, their fragile alliances born of mutual hatred of the Red Ministers finally being overtaken by the storm of their petty squabbles. It is doubtful the Republics could ever actually overcome Vesturia; their numbers are too few, but the Church is determined to exterminate them, which betrays more than the ever-teethy smiles of the Ministers could.

Within the Republics themselves, the Supra-Humans dwell in endless luxury and fathomless melodrama, constantly seeking deeper and deeper depravities to explore and thrills to chase. Around them, "lesser-men" toil to sustain them, even as the Supra-Humans bully them to work harder and harder.

Of the origins of the Supra-Humans, they will not speak. Many rumours have been circulated (many certainly started by the Supra-Humans themselves), perhaps they are the final result of an Alchemist's life-time research into the creation of perfect Homunculi, or maybe they are renegade Ministers of the Church who have overcome their needs and vulnerabilities. It is even possible that they are lying, and sustain themselves purely on magic. No-one can tell for now, and if the secret is anywhere, it is in the dread-hearts of the Palaces of the Doges of the Supra-Human Republics.

Vettinskrake, and the Denizens of the Pale Wastes

Principly taken from the Sagas of Ferringred, the Noble, the Sun-Caller, Tamer of the Winds, Giant-Maimer

Vettinskrake

Vettinskrake is cold, as far north as you can go, where it seems even the earth is frozen solid and flaking from the cold squeezing grasp of the ice that reach down into the heart-flesh of the world.
Knife-crevices of ice and raging undying blizzards, jagged mountain ranges and the pale, weak light of a sun that cares none for the blasted waste of nothingness.
Once the sun left the world all behind, and it was Ferringred who left the world behind as well to seek it out. He walked the long pathless wastes of the snow-drifts and ice-gripped lakes, and crossed Froddi's crest, before finally coming to the Mountains Beyond, and ascended to the final heights of the Mountain of Rest to call back the sun to the world.
Ferringred is not the only Hero to have traversed Vettinskrake, but he is the most famous, and the one to have gone the furthest. He is also numbered among the many, many victims of the Krake. A trait shared by all to have gone not even as far as he did.
Seek not to go there.
It is not idly that they say that "The North is too cold for Gods."

Ferringred, the Noble

Hero of the Northern Realms, who braved the terrors of Vettinskrake to beckon back the lost sun at the Mount of Rest.
His tale is told in its full in the Saga of Ferringred, but for the benefit of those here present, his most mighty deeds will be summarised;
He first took Fame and Glory at the battle of Hirruksnir, during which he slew with an Arrow and an Axe the Jarl of that Town, Skjrldan. Skjrldan had previously slain Ferringred's brother with a poisoned arrow, which began their blood-feud.
He did outsmart the Giant Ferregun, from which he took his Hero-Name, when the valley-town of Luggensvolt was under the Giant's tyranny. It was his wit that out-smarted the Giant, and thus drove it back to Old Fomoria in shame.
Whilst traversing the White Moors, he did become the Prey of Noksigrend, the Wilf-behind-the-Wind. In the fierceness of the battle, Ferringred took out the left eye of the Wolf with his sword, and drove it back to the wind in which it dwells and howls all the more loudly in anguish at the hurt done to it.
Also whilst wandering the White Moors whilst seeking the Mount of Rest,
He outsmarted Old Nana Trostii, the Hag of Froddi's Crest. He helped her thaw out water, believing her to be but a simple Old Maid, but saw past the Hag's illusions, and such he bound her hands and filled her mouth with Iron. Thus he could dictate the terms of their time together, which also allowed him the chance to take the Lamp-Of-Eyes, which did guide him to the Mount of Rest.
He caused the Demon Hrothdumr Stone-Blood to be called "The Corpse Who Crawls" after their mighty battle, during which he severed the tendons in the Demon's knees and heels. It was in this fight too that Ferringred lost his sword 'Byrnskyr' after it was thrust deep into the Demon's chest and sealed about by Stone. It was this blow that ended the battle.
He did finally come upon the Mount of Rest, and by the sacrifice of his blood, he did call back the Lost Sun to the land, saving the peoples of all the earth.
It was then afterwards that Ivehngr who-casts-a-long-shadow came upon him, and after a mighty battle, was Ferringred slain. His words and deeds were carried to us by many Shamans, who heard the departing of his spirit.

Noksigrend, the Wolf-behind-the-Wind

A great and mighty Wind-Spirit, who takes the form of a great White Wolf. Its form seems to be constantly blowing away in the gale, as if it were made of fresh snow. Its eyes blaze a fierce orange, the only part of it visible when it takes its Wind-Form, save that the eye that Ferringred stole from it now burns as a great lightning-scar from ear to maw.
Its howls cause mighty blizzards, and its barks sharp gales. It is most territorial, and has driven off all other spirits from its territory, which it shares now only with lesser wolves. It is ever eager to bear its fangs and claws, and ranges about its territory looking for whom it may devour, eager to consume as the blizzard is eager to bury and destroy. Its ferocity is a little blunted these days, its eye pains it still,  and the wounds to its pride may never heal.
It hates men with a particular fire, and will always seek to destroy them.

Old Nana Trostii, Hag of Froddi's Crest

A Hag of some considerable power, mother of the Demons, Blind, Shiver, and Seize, and also the adopted Mother of Yutheseta, the Maiden-with-Blue-Skin.
She does dwell in her cabin upon Froddi's Crest, where Ferringred spent a night after binding her and filling her mouth with Iron. She did cause him one great hurt, which lead finally to his death, as her price during Ferringred's succor was "Only what he made in her home." Thinking that the price was easy to pay, Ferringred agreed, but the Hag took a lock of his hair which grew during the night of his rest, and used it later for foul magics, in revenge for Ferringred's theft of her Lamp. It was thus that Ivehngr was directed to Ferringred at his weakest hour.
She wields her Wand-of-many-Wands, each wand of which is grown from her lonesome tree, which is nurtured by the fluids and ground bone of the men she slays. It is said that it is that tree, as well as her Black Cat Rime, and her three demon sons that she alone has love for.

The Demons Shiver, Seize, and Blind

Appearing as mighty Black Hyenas the size of tigers, with claws and cunning each to match, the Sons of Trostii are wraiths of the ice and snow. They can easily be seen to be something other from their limbs, which end in cruel and misshapen hands and feet, though they only rarely walk on their hind legs. Their fangs are blue-crystal shards of ice, their manes are delicate frost, and their eyes are bright shining blizzard-suns. Their laughter and cackling can often be heard by their victims long in advance of their attacks, though the prey rarely realise it is more than the wickedness of the wind that taunts them.
The Demons are immaterial if they wish to be, and their hands always are. They kill by squeezing the hearts of their prey, bursting them within the chest if they don't freeze them to ice first. They seem like flurries of ice on the air, whirling and circling around you as the cackling on the rises and rises. The first sight you will have of one is when it coalesces out of the snow, standing tall above your comrade, hand plunged into their chest, as blood flows like rivers from their eyes and mouth.

Yutheseta, the Maiden with Blue Skin

Tales say that once she was a lady like any other, betrayed by a lover the heart-break of which froze her solid from the inside out. The truth is that Yutheseta is the adopted child of Old Nana Trostii, a girl given to her as payment for one of the deals she has made in the past. She despises what she is, as the magic of the Hag and the Cold of Vettinskrake have stripped of all by the veneer of humanity, and she is now counted as one among the Fae. She wanders the Pale Wastes, having long since abandoned the family that despised her and that she despised in turn, stealing the hearts of humans who upset her and eating them.
She boils and seethes with hatred, and the snow steams and thaws at her feet as she walks, even as water freezes on her cold, cold skin. She will talk to humans if they show her any sympathy for a time too, though oftentimes this sympathy is short-lived when they learn of the past and personality she makes no effort to hide.
When this happens, the people are often as short-lived as the sympathy was.
Her hands are deadly sharp like ice, and if she is struck with a weapon, she will simply crack like ice and the pieces will slot back into place. The only way to stop her is to totally bludgeon her into tiny, impotent pieces of ice; though this only a temporary measure, but often times it provides the time needed to escape. Yutheseta also has some modicum of her adopted mother's magics, and calls down snow-storms and Ice-Spirits when she wishes.

Hrothdumr, the Corpse-who-Crawls

Its face is like a Grey-Stone Whirlpool, stormy skin drawn endlessly inwards. It is skeleton-thin now, wasted in turn by the wastes it is trapped in, and though its arms are but barely more than bone, they are still the width of a man's waste.
It crawls now, and must drag itself by the hands due to the wounds it was dealt by Ferringred.
When dealt wounds, and its blood is shed, it is stone that boils and bubbles forth from the gash, sealing its flesh over with rock. Thus, the more it is wounded, the harder it is to wound, though it must one day turn entirely to stone and be as dead.
Once, it was a member of the Fomorian Courts, cousin as it was to the Giants of that Land, though one day it was banished, and thus became lost and possessed of the deathly colds of Vettinskrake. Sometimes, the grief of what it has lost becomes overwhelming, and it collapses and allows itself to be buried by the flurries and blizzards. Thus it was that the Demon managed to assault Ferringred by surprise, bursting from the banks of frost.

Thorgredst, the Griefsmith

Once, he was Oath-Cousin to a great Dwarf-Jarl, Forge-Master of a whole realm, but fate was ever cruel to him, and thus his curse soon became apparent. A grand feast was called, and at it Thorgredst presented his Oath-Cousin with a gift, but before the night was done, the gift had slain the Jarl. All agreed that Thorgredst was not to fault for this hateful doom, but this wound bit deep at Thorgredst's soul. Eventually, Thorgredst discovered that everything he gave as a gift, bought or freely given brought its holder to a similarly awful fate as his Oath-Cousin of old, and such it was that Thorgredst reclused himself from Dwarfdom, and sought loneliness and seclusion in the White Wastes of Vettinskrake. His only work now is the occasional wanderer that seeks him out to personally request that he craft them a tragedy, that they might carry off to the person they seek to destroy. It never works quite as the commissioner intends, but Thorgredst does it all the same, calloused to tragedy as he is.
He is cruely alone.

Ivehngr, Who-Casts-a-Long-Shadow

His face is as a Human Skull, with distended jaw, filled with molars all around, and many pale lights dancing in the empty eye sockets. It walks like an aped on its hind legs, bandying hither and thither, and its skin is like old tar; oil-black against the clean-whiteness of the skull.
To look into its many eyes is to forget a world without snow, as far as you would see is endless and hateful ice regardless of the reality. Your homes would be buried by snow, sealed with frost, and your friends and family would appear as corpses left out in a blizzard for many days. Many who have seen the lights and lived long wished they had not survived the ordeal.
Its shadow is its most fearsome weapon. Its blackness is devoid utterly and totally. It is bereft of all; heat, light, air, hope. It is the shadow of death.

The Vondstrekken, frozen-hearted Men-of-Old

"The North is too cold for Gods," they say. The same is true of death as well sometimes. Vondstrekken are born of humans who are slain by the vicious cold and ice, which then grows and fractals within them, under the skin. They live still, but are far to numb to feel any of that, or to feel the sting of death, and thus they march on beyond the shade of the End. No God will brave the journey down to collect their souls.
They are impossible to kill, they have already been claimed by the cold. They will never stop hunting you if they seek your death, they have no other purposes. They are dreadfully sad and cold, they have nothing to exist for.
If you should ever meet the Vondstrekken, for they will always group together when they can in wandering herds of drifting dead, you should light a fire, and offer them a meal. Heat and warmth have been much denied to them. These things you offer them will give you opportunity to escape them. If you do not, they will take you, tear the meat from your bones, and slather themselves in the steaming meat to try and claim the warmth within. While the Vondstrekken eat the meat you offer them, you must strike up a conversation with them, and involve them all, or the trick will not work. Once the conversation is going, you must introduce some polarising and contentious debate among them, such as who the greatest hero among them is. While they bicker, you will have your chance to steal away from them; this is why you must involve all of them in the debate. If you do not, one of them will see you leave, and once they begin their pursuit, it will never stop.

Mithandrigal, who Flies-as-Lightning

She is a powerful sky-spirit, wearing the guise of a great eagle, though she scarcely needs to. Her eyes blaze with sky-fires, and storm clouds brew and boil angrily beneath her feathers. When she spreads her wings, a great billowing storm spills from her outstretched arms, and with a powerful beat, she speeds off into the air as a bolt of brilliant, white, blasting Lightning. Here she is true to her nature, as she speeds through the air, scorching and dashing the world apart around her, arcing around and about in bright shining lines of fire.
She is not cruel, nor does she have a great hatred of men. She does however, have very particular desires, and she cannot abide those who do not give her the gifts befitting her station. Many are the men she has blasted to stinking meat that did not grant her some mighty morsel to chew on. Indeed, even mighty Ferringred only escaped her wrath by hiding overnight in a cave beneath the earth; the one place she could not stand to go.

The Iksvaettir, the Thin Kings

There were once a race of beings, something like men, that now dwell in and rule the Vettinskrake. Close up, they are probably anything but human, though they might appear to be men at distance. No-one really knows what they look like. Some say their faces are like fractals of snowflakes wrapped endlessly around themselves, or jagged boulders of ice. Some have said their tools are made of ice, and glow a soft and terrible blue. Others tell that it is ancient flint that their weapons are forged of. Some others even say that they create the Vondstrekken as their unwitting wolves, and that they eat the cold and shredded meat they leave behind in their eternal searches for heat.
The truly bold-faced tell of great castles carved from mountains and adorned with glacial towers, cruel grasping hands reaching up into the sky with shining-tipped claws.
The truth is perhaps that they are the lost servants of Lord Storms, or perhaps he enemies, frozen and ice-clad. They might guard the Black Spire that is the resting place of Fabled Lord Storms' lost heart. Or perhaps they guard it from him so that he can never reclaim it.
What is sure, is that they slay all men they find in the wastes of Vettinskrake. None will ever find the Dark Spire of Lord Storms.

The Nine-Eyed Fox

A trickster-spirit of the Wastes who dwells in a palace of frosted-crystal. He has nine eyes in a ring on the crown of his head, long, long white ears tipped with black, and a long and lazily wafting tail. It is said that it is extraordinarily fond of humans for a spirit of its kind, and will often invite them to stay at its dwelling. Indeed, Ferringred himself was invited to stay for a few days by the Fox, who saw his might and the cloud of fate that mantled him. Elves however, are a source of purest hate within the Spirit's heart, and it has only death for them.
It is said that the Nine Eyes of the Fox see the nine-fates of those they behold, and that the fox is blind to the present world. Others call that foolishness, and that the eyes merely see one each into the realms of the world. Again, there are more that declare that the nine eyes are all misdirection, and the Fox's true eyes are in its mouth, and thus that it can only see when it speaks.
It is a master of magics, though it has never used them fatally, it only misdirects, tricks, and leads others to their own demise. Its hands are supernaturally dexterous too, and it can often be seen crouched like a monkey, tinkering with some new trinket it has carved out of the ice of its home.

Fabled Lord Storms

A masked and mighty Death-Knight of legend. Old tales say that after his long and cruel life, he carved out his own heart, sealed it still beating in a Sandalwood box, and hid it away in a tower of Midnight-Black stone, that he would never again feel the hurts that had been inflicted upon him.
The legends also say, that the Tower is the very heart itself of Vettinskrake; though none who have braved the cold and death have ever returned to speak of the truth of it.

Demon Lords - Part 1

Demon Lords are fertile ground for all kinds of wretched villains who by their very existence demand smiting righteously and vigorously. This is the first of five posts on Demon Lords, twenty lords in total, and a special set of Six Arch-Fiends to Lord it over the rest of them. Here we go then...

Throgmaw, the Gutworm
Unlike most demons, who dwell in Hell, Throgmaw churns and writhes through the belly of the earth, tearing through rock and dirt in its ceaseless quest to consume and digest.

Throgmaw in appearance is a large, segmented worm, perhaps the size of a small train. Each segment of its long, pallid body seems to sprout from the previous part, a ring of sore, bulging teeth surrounding the squeezing flesh of the joins; each section of the worm vomiting forth the next. The mouth at the front end is terrible indeed to behold. Rings of tusk-fangs, pulsing, bulbous flesh, and a raw sphincter of flesh in the deepest part of its gaping jaws.

Perhaps by its appearance you might consider it a simple animal, or at least simple in its desires to consume and devour; and you would be horribly, tortuously wrong.

For most, admittedly, the worst fate they can expect from the Gutworm is that struck down by his weight, they will feel him descend from above and tear open their bellies and abdomens, having their meats and offal drained from them, and the ragged remains discarded like so much useless cloth. For those worthy enough to actually acquire some sort of measure of attention from the worm, a far worse fate remains.

Some special few, chosen according to principles known only to the Grand Maggot itself, will disappear in one end, and reappear at the other, imperceptibly changed, in half of cases at least. Half of the time the victim will emerge apparently unscathed by their ordeal, though eventually it will become clear that any shred of humanity they may once have possessed is gone, wholly and utterly. They are now monsters in the flesh-garb of the victim. The same is true of the other half of those special victims of the Worm, who emerge again, seemingly unscathed. However, it will only take a minute or two before they spasm and collapse, shrieking and howling as their flesh warps and contorts, never holding a solid form for more than a moment, never settling, always changing. These horrible, ever-shifting beasts quickly descend into a madness that ends only with its death, and involves the destruction of everything that isn't stone or earth as long as it continues.

Throgmaw will also sometimes leave behind tiny, wriggling grubs in his wake. Do not touch them; they can burrow through flesh and skin in an instant. This isn't even the worst part, only an unlucky few will be slain by the maggots chewing their flesh to ribbons even as they grow to replace the lost meat until the worm is all that is left inside the skin-suit. Most will survive well into the time when the maggot eats its well up into the skull and gobbles up all the delicious pinkish, folded brain-meat, leaving the Maggot in control of the now vacant corpse. Such controlled bodies never quite seem to have much of a purpose, they stumble about unable to speak or really move with much grace at all, appearing to most as more mundane undead servants. But, they seem to be acting beyond simple random impulses; they have a cruel and despicable mind and will, eager to inflict pain and death where-ever they can.

Solomon, the Gilded King
Of all Demons, Solomon is the most vile in his excess. Even in the realms of mortals his form is know; a pallid wretchedly wizened man, skin like leather, eyes shrunken down to pin-pricks. His nails are like tree roots, and his bald head creaks beneath the cold dry skin that stretches over it, his spine pokes out of his back in ragged tears.

And yet, he is always bedecked in sickening amounts of gold. His robes are lacquered in it, his staff shod in exquisite and intricate lucred murals, his hands weighed down with wicked rings. He sits hunched over in his vast, high throne atop a vast mountain of riches of all kinds. Other than he, his vast court is empty; he could tolerate not even the possibility of theft.

What demon-servants he does have cower and shake beyond the doors of his bright-shining sanctum, waiting anxiously for his bellowed commands. They respond immediately and hurriedly; those showing their "disloyalty" are entombed in gold.

In ancient stories, there are, or maybe were, ways for men to become demons. Solomon was the first and greatest of them. Born a slave, he eventually found consort with the emissaries of Hell, and bought himself a throne and eternal life at the easily paid price of all he knew to be destroyed by fire. The city he was chained in burned as he transcended mortal life, gleefully watching as that which he despised was reduced to cinders, even as his mortal form failed. Others say that it only cost a single life, unwillingly given, but given all the same.

Either way, now he rules as a king among demons, rich beyond any conceivable imaginings, powerful beyond the dreams of men. And yet, still he hungers, still he craves, still he desires. His courtly visits (he never allows any entrance to his domain) to other demon lords are lavish and extravagant, but they are never enough. The gifts and tributes he receives from the more servile lords are accepted through gritted teeth and fierce disappointment. He is never grateful.

Unlike almost all other demon lords, there are no tales of him in battle, none of iron-clad heroes kicking in the doors of his courts, none of wise and sagely mages blasting him to smithereens with powerful magics. Only of their victories, of their boasts that they and they alone could defeat Gold-Crazed Solomon, and steal his treasure. Their towers are indeed luxurious and their hordes vast, but vaster still are the vaults of Solomon, and he has never had to raise even a finger in his own defense...

Quorus, of the Many Tongues

Should you attempt to speak in Quorus' presence, you will slowly find your voice stolen away, only your throat, tongue, and mind are fine; it is the words themselves that are taken by Quorus. Each of it's tongues bind a word, and it has many, many tongues. The many mouths of its chest and belly chewing up the noises you make, leaving nothing left in your mouth. Not an infinite number (yet) but enough to mean that you would never be able to fill them all before the end. The more you speak, the more words are stolen from your mouth. Eventually, all that is left is silence. You cannot speak, and your words are turned against you, you cannot even think the words. Though it can use them against you, of course. And for god's sakes, don't say your own name, that would give you over to it utterly, and your thoughts would become his.

Quorus is a bloated beast of a demon, a great engorged sac hanging obscenely from a insectile body, fibrile wings beating furiously to keep the whole wretched mass afloat. The sac hanging beneath the body, fully the size of a horse, is covered in altogether too many mouths, some gnashing slowly, others hanging, drooling, screaming, thrashing. The body of the creature bears a ever-shifting set of round, glistening insect-eyes, endlessly peering at you.

A ring of thin, segmented legs crowns the area above the mouth-sac, but they're too short and pathetic to actually achieve anything.

Strangely enough for a demon of Quorus' potency, the majority of its servants are non-demonic, idiot-slaves foolish enough to say their own names within hearing distance of Quorus. The lot of the Name-Slaves of Quorus is to tend to the sore and wretched mouths of the Demon, to carefully and diligently copy down the mad ravings of the more independent mouths, and to lay down their lives for the Demon Lord if needs be. There are a few demons amongst its ranks, but most are wily enough to avoid it; not even demon lords are immune to Quorus' dominion should their names be spoken. Demonic Name-Slaves rarely do anything of worth, Quorus is content to force them to demean themselves for its pleasure.

In desperation, Quorus can bite off its own tongues. They wriggle and spasm with frightful purpose, and can even leap a good distance. Each tongue bitten of in this way releases the word that was bound to it, constantly for a good few minutes, effectively deafening anyone in the area and totally disrupting communication and magical incantations. The tongues can sting those they pounce at like a wasp, and causes further tongues to sprout from the wound. They flap uselessly and occasionally dribble. Should a tongue manage to get inside someone's throat, that person will almost certainly suffocate, and return as demon-spawn of Quorus.

Buboskos, of the Bloated Throat

Most of the time Buboskos sits serenely in its pit of filth and tar, for all the world appearing as a great, obscene toad. Large bony crests like antlers sprout from above its eyes, and its skin is covered, just covered, in putrid, bloated boils. Some of them even have tiny swimming things squirming beneath the surface.

When it croaks, it is deep like the groan of splintering wood, or grinding tectonics. And as the throat sac stresses and bulges with the croak, so do the Demon's boils.

In the vast circles of hell, Buboskos' court is something of a meeting ground. Many weaker demons feel safe(r) in the stale-pits beneath Buboskos' filth-throne, which rises up like a heap of phlegm and bile. Beneath his stern and unwavering gaze, nothing goes unnoticed. Every scale and fiber and fleck of skin is noted and taken, in case the visiting being earns the ire of Buboskos.

Should you anger him, his gaze will not change, he will not react, but one of his servitor-demons will slink into action, pick up the leavings that inevitably remain. These will be fed to Buboskos, and he will breed a copy of the perpetrator. It is loyal to him, and is created for a purpose; usually the destruction of its originator if Buboskos created it. When the boil-simulacra has completed its task, or is slain, it dissolves slowly, over the course of hours into the thin yellowish ichor that birthed it. It is possible to convince Buboskos to create a boil-simulacra for you if you can provide both something of the creature or item you want copied and something of value to the Toad-Beast. Demons never do anything for free of course.

Buboskos' demon thralls are for the most part as pestilent as he is, covered in boils and weeping sores. They are hunched, and lope more than walk; they are still somewhat human-shaped unlike their patron, but they are somewhere in between. They record who visits when, and will pick up anything that a visitor leaves behind with delicate pincers, just in case. Their grins are altogether too wide, and their tongues just a little too prehensile. Its more than a little bit uncomfortable when they shake their hand with it. Mostly however, they are somewhat hospitable to the visiting demon and mortal traveller alike, though should violence break out, they swarm like flies around their master, defending him with sheer body mass.

If anyone should try to attack the Bloated Beast, or commit some foul treachery so unforgivable its perpetrator should be immediately extinguished, it will remain as inscrutably calm as it ever does until suddenly like a bolt of lightning its mouth will rupture, spraying caustic slime over a goodly area before it, and a tongue like a dragons head will leap forward at impossible speeds. Before the profligate can even move the tongue will open, its moray-maw vast and ringed with a thousand thousand teeth set in the tongues sickly pink flesh, and in an instant, the victim is gone, and so is the tongue, and a new boil will blossom on the Bloated Lord's hide.

Yggdrisalia, the Lady of Roots
The fair Lady of Roots barely counts as sentient most of the time. She is about a mile tall, and a half mile wide at her highest, more than seven wide at her base, and possibly bigger beneath the basalt soils of Hell. Her trunk is like flesh left to calcify over uncountable millennia, and indeed, the higher you climb, the softer and more porous it is. The branches are positively soggy and limp, drooping down like willow branches after arcing lazily through the air above. Her roots are like insect limbs, segmented and thin, compared to her trunk that is. They stab down into the earth and wind through it like cancer, arching above the surface sometimes. They bleed if cut, a thick blue lava that flows in the way that rock doesn't.

She has flowers too, and fruit, but they appear only rarely. Some say it is with the birth of a new Demon Lord that her flowers bloom, and with each mortal transcended to Demon-State that her fruits ripen and grow heavy on the branch. Some say that to drink the tea of her petals is to life eternal, and that to gorge on her fruits is instant death, or perhaps lingering death. Planting the seeds from her fruit causes devil-infantry to spring from the ground, or perhaps a temple dedicated to the infernal pantheon, or even a further flower with tongues of flame for head and leaves.

They say it is she that will end the world, her tendrils encompassing all, spread all throughout beneath the feet of men where none can see their end coming, then squeezing, splitting the earth open like a ripe peach. Others murmur that instead she will merely drink the earth dry, shriveling the mud and muck of the world into dust and sand, and that she will be
It is also said, in strangled whispers in gloomy corners that she was the first of the Demons, that all others sprouted from her fruits and roots, that the earth about her is scattered with corpses of demons who could not survive their ante-natal plummets. That the Seed of the End of the World was planted when the first murder was born, as flint dug deep into the skull of a friend, where the first scraps of brain matter ever spilled from malice fell.

Other tales tell of how her branches actually reach upwards to try and throttle the sun; how every wicked soul claimed by demons is brought to her to nourish her roots; how it was really the first women scorned by men that fled the world of mortals and forsook her flesh to become the Demon-Tree and that is why it is a she; but these are all tales. None have been to Hell and returned to find out, and presumably if they had, how could a tree speak, and why say any of these things? All these can be nothing more than rumour.

Curse Imps - A different kind of way to inconvenience your players

Most Demons are far too important and powerful to bother with you. Their uncountable eternities are far too precious to be taken up with the likes of pesky little mortals who killed a cult of theirs in one of the inscrutable infinities of the creations Demons watch over. However, they would still get pissed off by it, and as long as it wasn't a particularly big or important cult, they would probably send a Curse-Imp or two to make your life just that bit more unpleasant.

Curse-Imps are invisible, dwelling in the ethereal mists between atoms and energies, much like ghosts, only altogether more petty and malicious. Their lot is to crouch on your shoulder, hang off your back, and mess with you. There are many types of Curse-Imp, and each will harass you in their own special way. They can't literally hurt you, but they can make your time in this world just a touch more miserable.

Getting rid of them is as simple as a small exorcism by a reasonably proficient cleric. Actually realising that it is a Curse-Imp is altogether less easy.

Here are a few:

Headsplitter Imps - That pain in your head, that feels like nails being driven into your temples that just started with no discernable source? Probably ethereal nails being driven into your ethereal temples. These ones perch on your head like a bird, a clutch of crooked nails in one hand, a hooked hammer in the other. Once their nails are in, they might also scratch at your brain with their long nails, digging in to the lobes and folds of your head.

[This would probably give a small penalty to intelligence checks for things that require concentrating, like rituals, reading, translating, etc.]

Schizo Imps - Schizo Imps love nothing more than just talking crazy shit into your ears. The darker and more tasteless, the better. Of course, because they are ethereal, and you are not, you only hear parts of it, and only as a thought in your own head, your brain interpreting signals that you cannot really hear or place. You may never even really hear them at all, but you still feel some sort of deep, intuitive discomfort, that things are never actually quite alright, that your sense of reality is beginning to slip...

[I'd occasionally just give the player a small scrap of paper with some sort of dark yet inane shit on it, not a whole sentence, just part of a clause, enough to make the player wonder what's up, what it could mean. It would of course, mean nothing.]

Ice-Finger Imps - These Curse-Imps cling to your back, and drive their nails into your back, both when danger is near, and when it is totally safe. You would feel only a cold shiver run down your back, the type to set your teeth on edge. The Curse-Imp cackles in glee once the response is learned, when you feel the chill, you can never be calm, if you feel it, danger must be close! ...right?

[I'd probably just do this as written, except it would happen as determined by a die roll. When there's actual danger close, happens on a 3+, if there isn't, on a 5+. Just enough that there is an identifiable pattern, but there also isn't, to keep the players always guessing.]

Poltergeist Imps - Much like the ghosts of tales and story, these imps are tricksters and pranksters. Of course, being on the ethereal, they struggle to clutch much of anything in reality, and at most can only lift the lightest objects. But very occasionally they can pick something of yours up and ruin it, or throw it around. They particularly like to do this to things you really like, or while you're trying to be nice an quiet.

[Again, fairly self-explanatory I think. Each long rest, roll a d6. On a 1, a precious but fragile object is broken and ruined. If you're trying to stealth, roll a d6. On a 1, a small but noisy object clatters to the floor, giving you disadvantage on the resulting stealth check.]

Boiler Imps - These Curse-Imps are practitioners of the ancient arts of Flame-Magicks, not very good ones of course (they are only Imps after all), but they can manifest ethereal flames in their hands, which they use to heat you up. It is only slight, but enough that over time, the heat sets in, and sweat begins to seep up and drip down your face. An uncomfortable stickiness sets in, and no amount of cool rags can seem to shake it. And then, just like that, it is gone.

[Possibly a similar effect to the Headsplitter imp to be honest, though maybe this affects your physical skills rather than intellectual ones (for the sake of having distinct rules if not realistic effects).]

Poxule Imps - Sometimes, a Curse-Imp will consider itself an artist, and will cling to your neck with its thighs and paint tiny red spots on your face. These don't quite make it through to the material world, but they do enough to irritate the skin, to bother your pores enough to sprout you up in a mess of acne and teenage angst all over again. It itches occasionally, but not that much. It does make you look a little bit silly though.

[The best part of this is that I think many players would hate the occasional slip-ins about how their spots blemish their character's faces. Some might embrace it of course, but for those that do hate it, they will hate it. Also, I'd probably give them a -1 or so to many charisma checks. Sometimes, we can't help but take the pimply adult a bit less seriously than we should.]

Malady Imps - If Poxule Imps are artists, Malady Imps are cooks, and they whip up all sorts inside your belly. Most your body can fight off, but occasionally it will seep through you and sicken you. Only a tiny bit though, just enough to make you barf during the night or wake up feeling like a donkey shat on your head in the night.

[Each rest, roll a d6. On a roll of 1, you lose a hit dice, or your HP max is 1 or 2 lower. Nothing serious, but a small annoyance that doesn't cripple you in any way. The main point of the Curse-Imps is to annoy, to psychologically attack the player in a small but noticeable way. Let the real effects come from the players rather than the Imps.]

Drosophilic Imps - These Curse-Imps like to be carried around in your pack. They're never heavy enough for you to ever notice or be inconvenienced by them, but they play with your food, and their fingers are yucky indeed. When you settle down for a meal, you might notice that one of those rations that really should have lasted a couple more days at least, has gone soft and runny. Nothing to do but ditch it.

[Each time they eat a ration, roll a d4. On a 1, they must cross off an additional ration. Nothing too complex in this one.]

Doubt-Sower Imps - These ones are similar to Schizo Imps. They whisper to you like a vulture on your shoulder, telling you over and over that you aren't good enough, there's no possible way for you to succeed, that you'll never be good enough. You never really hear enough of it to make any sense of it, but still, the troubling weight in your belly makes you feel like something is wrong, and you have no idea why...

[These are subtly different, in that these Imps are out to convince you that you're not good enough, rather than convince you that you're mad. When a character with a Doubt-Sower Imp rolls a check they are proficient in, they lose their proficiency bonus if you roll a 1 on a d6.]

Limbclamper Imps - These Curse-Imps like to work by hanging off of your limbs, clutching as tightly to you as they can. Sometimes this will bleed into your material limbs, and a deep cold cramp sets in to your muscels and bones, siezing up your joints and tensing your muscles so that, just for a moment, you can't move. The Imps are experts at timing this for the worst outcomes for you.

[Once per rest or so, when a character tries to use some sort of physical skill, they must do it at disadvantage. Try to keep it from those times that it could lead to outright death, just for when it would have some sort of consequence.]

Skittersight Imps - You could be anywhere, doing anything, when all of a sudden you'll catch just a glimpse of movement. You go to investigate, you run, certain you saw something, but in the end, nothing will be revealed. You will pause, sure there was something there, like the other times. You will wonder when it will come back, if you can catch it next time. The Curse-Imp clinging to your face will cackle that you might never realise it is right there, always with you.

[Save this for those times where the players least expect it, or when they most expect it. Really convince them something is there, and they need to get it. Never let them.]

Beast-Botherer - This one barks like a goat's dying scream, loudly, but ethereally. It barks all day long, and never stops. Now, this is never enough to actually bother a person, animals have much sharper senses than mortals, and they will pick up the wretched grating screams on the edge of their hearing while you are around. They hear the noise coming from you, and the longer you remain, the more and more the beast hate you. The Imp would laugh if its throat hadn't been torn ragged from the constant screaming.

[Something simple like, disadvantage on all charisma checks against animals for you and everyone within 10 feet of you.]

Glass-Eye Imps - Glass-Eye Imps are right bastards. Evil, horrible little fuckers. They clamp onto your head for most of the day, but over time, at night, while you sleep, they sit on your face and scratch and claw at your eyes. They don't do any real damage in any individual night, but they are determined and nothing if not single-minded. They scratch and scratch and scratch, night after night after night, until your eyes are glassy and misted, until you can't see anything at all.

[On a long rest, take a con save that determines how long until the next save. When you would take the seventh save, you go blind, permanently. Maybe have something about a mounting penalty to sight based rolls based on how many saves you've had to take.] 

Bleakspeak Imps - Another type of Curse-Imp that sits on your shoulder and talks to you, only, these ones are grim and dour; they lack the sadistic glee of the others. They speak less, but are heard all the more clearly for it. And when they speak, it is dark, dark words they say, the most cruel and awful things are suggested to their hosts, the things we all occasionally think and are disgusted by. The constant assault doesn't always turn the host into a terrible vessel of these black thoughts, but maybe just sometimes...

[Run them like Schizo Imps, only offer them a small XP bonus for going through with it. Never enough to actually make them do it, but enough that its worth thinking "maybe I should", if only for a moment. Its the considering of the act thats important here, they never have to do it, and given the nature of the Imp, its probably for the best if they don't.]

Rope-Biter Imps - Rope-Biter Imps have very specific tastes; rope. Rope of all kinds and makes and materials. It doesn't matter whose rope either, as long as its close enough to the Curse-Imps host. They cling to you and gnaw on ropes that get close enough to their mouths, full of sharp and crooked teeth. They are rather adept climbers themselves, so pretty much any rope you could touch, they can get into their disgusting maws.

[Very simple, when this character uses a rope, it breaks halfway through use on the d6 roll of a 1.]

Sceptic Imps - These Curse-Imps have improbably (and uncomfortably) long and prehensile tongues, which drip and slop with foul ichors and slimes. So proud are they of their tongues they really, really want to share them with you, all the time, as deep as they can. So be careful when you fight, any hurt of yours is destined for an ethereal bath in Curse-Imp drool. Its as gross as it sounds.

[At the end of each combat or encounter in which the character took damage, have them roll a con save. Their HP max is reduced by 1 for each failed save, which comes back at the rate of 1 + con modifier (minimum of 0) at the end of each long rest.]

Chill-Wind Imps - Have you ever been deep underground, where no touch of the sun has ever dared venture, where the rocks are cold and pallid with the lack of stellar caress? Have you then been relying on your trusty tourch, that beacon of light and hope that you might actually be able to emerge from this dank and dark hell alive, only for it to suddenly, and inopportunely, go out? Its possible you have Chill-Wind Imps. Their whole thing is blowing out candles and flames, you see.

[At the most inopportune moment, roll a d6. On the roll of a 1, all non-magical flames go out.]

True-Colours Imps - These Curse-Imps hide inside your flesh, and have the most intuitive control over their ethereal presence, and they turn it to making it really hard for you to lie. Some of them are loud and bombastic Imps, and have your skin change colour depending on your mood, others are more subtle, and use your smell to give away your thoughts. Some simply grip your tongue in their cruel, grubby little hands such that you physically cannot lie. All of them, take great delight in when the lies are discovered, and the truth apppears, to the detriment of all involved.

[All characters and NPCs and such have advantage on discerning this character's true intentions/feelings.]

Malapropist Imps - Much like True-Colours Imps, Malapropist Imps hide inside your head, and enjoy playing with your tongue. They try to hold off for as long as possible, waiting for the chance to really, really mess up your speech. Sometimes they just can't help themselves, and scrabble at your tongue and kick at your brain, so that the words come out wrong, warped, and misshapen.

[When this character undertakes a speech based activity, roll a d6. On a 1, they have disadvantage on any rolls they need to make, or the effects of the ability are somehow diminished.]

Fumble Imps - These are the laziest of the Curse-Imps. They merely sit glumly on your head, casting tiny little curses on you, bad luck charms, tiny inconveniences. Most get lost in the infinite and infinitesimal gaps between the material and the ethereal, but a few will make it through to make your day just that little bit worse. 

[This character now fumbles an attack roll on the roll of a 1 or a 2, and similarly any other d20 roll is fumbled range in a 1 bigger than normal (since not everyone uses skill check fumbles, thought it would be safer to do it this way).]