Tharalstrazix

Tharalstrazix, the Fever That Shakes Minds And Worlds

Insatiability, Spite
Progeny Count: 4:5:12
A Taxonomy Of Madness

The Yozis, imprisoned as they are, have been driven mad in their captivity. Tharalstrazix has perhaps become crazier than most. Not even the other Yozis, great and terrible in their intellect, know what goes on behind the omnipresent haze of his presence. He (if a gender can truly be ascribed to him) is omnipresent, saturating the very being of Malfeas with insanity and the giddy chaos brought on in the heat of fever. He is perhaps the most desperate of the Yozis to escape, because it is his nature to agitate and shake the world without cause or goal, and the bindings laid upon him chafe hideously. This conflict saturates him with a heady brew of desperation and rage, which all things that are in the Demon City draw into themselves. He is the frenetic, harried bustle in the demon city, its energy and driving rhythm. His children are everywhere and nowhere, and, like their master, are at once eager to enter Creation and terrified to leave Malfeas.

• Temozarael, The Unrepentant In A Clockwork Cradle (Han'ya)
  Deep in the wilds of Cecelyne, there rises a great pillar of stone in the featureless desert, one of few breaks in the infinite sands. On this craggy mesa's sandstone sides, the color of dried blood, there is a door, of black Malfean iron. Any who would enter this door must do so with rage in their hearts. Any who wish to do Temozarael harm more than they wish to live need not even touch the gates, for they will open themselves for such dark purity. Within, in a great blasphemous mechanism of clockwork and hydraulics, boilers and cauldrons of infernal Essence, sits Temozarael, on a throne of cold iron, carved with a never-ending litany of hatred and rage. Great tubes and capillaries lead from the machine, which is Temozarael, to the throne, which is Temozarael, and the man on the throne, who is Temozarael. His face, if it can be called that, is still blasted and scarred into twisted grotesquerie by the fury of the Unconquered Sun's chosen. He could heal these wounds in an instant, but he lets them remain as a testament. To what, nobody is quite sure but him. His hands are not even hands, and the horrors that they caress upon living flesh cannot be detailed by anyone, for there are not words to describe them. Pus and blood fall from his iron-booted feet, and his robe contains the ceaseless fires of his hatred, stoked by his infernal furnaces. One can call Temozarael forth to turn his destructive gaze upon the world, and sear it with the infernal Essence-fires ignited by his rage at his unjust exile. Nothing can stand against this fury, not even the gods themselves. The only problem is getting him to stop. His great monstrous distillaries can also synthesize poisons so potent that only the greatest of the Exalts and gods can withstand them.
  • Emicrade, The Clock Without Numbers Or Hands, Warding Soul of Temozarael (Han'ya)
    Atop Temozarael's citadel (which is really an extension of Temozarela's form) there is a great clock, with no numbers and no hands. The great clockwork mechanisms hidden behind its milky white face tick away, inscrutable in their purpose. Occasionally, the mechanism will erupt outwards and go hunting, a great clockwork beast carved of bone and black Malfean iron, crackling with acidic green light. Emicrade, the most inscrutable of all of Tharalstrazix's souls, lurks within his burrow atop his lord Temozarael, biding his measureless time until he can escape and bring all continuity into unison and destroy the blasphemy of separated time. Emicrade is a being of unmeasured time, whether the measurements are simply ignored, infinite, or unknown. His mind (if it can be called that) functions without solid time, and as such does not change. To Emicrade, all summonings are as one summoning, all wounds as one wound, all hunts as one hunt, all meals as one meal, all facts as one fact, all mysteries as one mystery. Emicrade lives his boredom as an eternity and an instant at once, and revels in the white-hot infinity collapsed into a second that is victory and slaughter. He appears as a great beast, something like a cat, or perhaps some terrible lizard, at times like a boar, or some great worm or slug, or all of these at once. His every whirring component is soaked in a lubricant that causes all who touch it to erupt in hideous tumors. Every cog and gear, every whirring wheel, is razor-sharp and fiercely strong. Eyes it has wherever the acidic lightning that is its life-energy shows through its mechanical shell. These gateways to madness are its only weak point. They can open and close in a heartbeat, so it is useless to strike at them. Great chunks of the living mechanism must be torn away to open holes large enough to score blows. The ticking of clocks and the ringing of bronze bells is agony to Emicrade, and he cannot enter a domicile at noon if the inhabitants know it is noon.
    • Nemmu, the Wide-Eyed With Blank Stares (Han'ya)
      The nemmu are less prolific than some demons, but not rare by any means. They are roughly 2 feet in height, and are docile and largely harmless. In appearance, they are potbellied imps with stumpy limbs, small mouths and ears, and a single large eye that is nearly 6 inches in height, and almost 8 inches wide. Their one extraordinary gift is hidden in this gargantuan organ. When a nemmu turns its blank gaze on an object, it can instantly draw that object into a small pocket universe free of ordered time. A flower can slumber within and emerge fresh as the day it was picked. A piece of toast can be sucked within, and emerge cold but not stale. The timelessness is not logical, and so it is unwise to hide living things within the nemmu, for they will experience every instant of the time missed, and possibly much more, but without any of the physical side effects. The nemmu absorb objects apparently at random if given free will, and are often used as handy storage devices by their summoners. They are calm and placid, or appear so at least, and their willing service can be secured by an offering of a squash or a broken hourglass.
    • Longrenhimm, the Scissor Men (Han'ya)
      The longrenhimm keep to the shadows of Malfeas, for their kind have an emnity with Ligier and his offspring whose root cause is not spoken of. They are over six feet in height, and resemble men only in the vaguest sense possible. What they really call to mind is a gigantic ostrich with chainsaws for skin. Long-necked, with hooked steel beaks and thousands of tiny blades on chains that never stop writhing and clicking along covering their metal skeletons and crackling green life-force, they are heralded by a clicking noise like knucklebones on a tiled floor when they are calm, and a fearsome shrieking when angered or fearful. They love the scent of fear, and as such are given to tormenting and toying with their prey before moving in for the kill, inevitably near a very public place, into which they will usually toss the corpse after savaging it and feeding. They can be enticed into service by the promise of fear and savage violence. As creatures which inspire fear, they are fearful themselves, even cowardly. If one is demonstrably more powerful than a longrenhimm, the creature will not disobey or attack them unless ordered to do so by either their summoner, a more powerful demon, or someone yet more powerful than the person in question, or unless they think they can get away with it.
  • Netraphim, The Flaw In The Armour Of Contempt, Indulgent Soul of Temozarael (Han'ya)
    Seeds of doubt lurk in all minds, for a mind without possibility for change is not a mind. Netraphim is the flaw in the armour of contempt, the lurking doubt at the back of Temozarael's mind. If Temozarael is purity of desire and purpose, Netraphim is weakness, loss of conviction, and the death of faith. Her aspect is that of a cloaked woman, with skin the color of snow at night and an inhuman strength. Her voice can undermine the most strongly held convictions and shatter the faith of gods in themselves, causing them to dissolve back into ambient Essence.
    • Shriv-Naku, the Blade-Wolves (Han'ya)
      The shriv-naku take the form of great dire wolves four feet at the shoulder. Great flanged, curving blades sprout from them at the shoulders, knees, and paws, and all along their back. As the demon ages, the blades grow and increase in number. A shriv-naku can run for many days and nights and cannot be slain by mortal weapons. When in pursuit of a lost cause, they can outrun even the wind, leap the widest crags, carry great burdens, and slay small armies. They are greatly enticed by the sound of oaths sworn, the scent of tears in the desert, and the cries of dying babies.
    • Peledora, Tales Told To The Wind (Han'ya)
      The peledora are ephemeral, wispy beings. They take the form of clouds of purple ribbons that can only be seen during an eclipse, or in the light of the anima of the Eclipse caste. Their great power is to whisper truth directly into the mind of the unwary, not even themselves knowing from whence it came. The truths told will always strike at the conviction and dedication to their cause of the listener. They remain permanently dematerialized, and can only interact with our world through sound. The can be called by secrets being whispered to oneself under a full moon or in a dark, windowless room.
    • Tokhaeroth, the Flower Whose Scent Is Introspection (Han'ya)
      Growing wherever there is pure water in Malfeas, and as such rare, the tokhaeroth appear as long-stemmed white flowers whose pollen is grainy and black, like obsidian dust. When inhaled, this pollen provokes serious and calm examination of deeply-held beliefs and desires. It calls forth memories and logic to destroy conviction and purpose. It has no effect on those who have decided that achieving their goal is more important than anything else, even morals or their own lives. Tokhaeroth cannot be destroyed by fire or poison, and grow in wet mud. If their roots are pulled out or their stems cut, they disappear in a cloud of pollen and regrow under the next full moon. They can be summoned by the sobs of a doubt-filled soul in a street during the day.
  • Kubriya, The Lord Of Flesh, Messenger Soul of Temozarael (Han'ya)
    When Creation was young, the Primordials exercised their creativity and populated it with life to amuse themselves. Kubriya was considered a bit obsessed even by his compatriots. He loved nothing more than to shape, and reshape, and at last render shapeless, that which lives and bears flesh. His hordes of creations were traumatic to look upon, and deadly to fight, in the Primordial War. Since his exile to Malfeas, he has turned his creative fury to breeding warriors to win his lord's freedom. These mad half-alive creatures are like something out of a nightmare, but there is a certain purity and power in their patchwork forms. Kubriya's creations represent the epitome of natural selection and purity of form and mind, if they can truly be said to have minds. They live for their lord's pleasure, and cannot be readily commanded by any but him, being devoid of ears. This, along with inhuman toughness, allows them to survive as they roam the desert of Cecelyne, unharmed by the heat of Ligier, the dryness of Cecelyne, or the scouring ravages of Adorjan. They are most at home in the desert, and will gladly wander there for days on end. Kubriya himself has little interest in shaping his own form, being both somewhat lazy and titanically arrogant. His form doesn't need much work in any case. When summoned, he assumes the form of a brawny, hairy man with huge, bloodstained wings, curved ebon claws, and blank white eyes, yet a strangely elegant face. His voice can sway the weak-minded, and he is skilled beyond mortal comprehension in the arts of surgery. Blood is his preferred beverage, and he finds its taste sweet beyond measure. He will erupt into berserk rage if he is to see anything he perceives as beautiful damaged in any way. The defilement of beauty is one of the greatest sins in his mind.
    • Geshuggin, the Masked and Unfeeling (Han'ya)
      The geshuggin are almost physically identical to humans at surface inspection. They are completely uniform in body and mind, no two any different. Even the weapons they bear are borne by sheer coincidence and their lord's fancy. Any identifying markings are not removed, but are ignored nonetheless. All are exactly seven feet tall, inhumanly brawny, and wrapped in strips of white material like a cross between paper, kidskin, and silk. This material is often stained with their black blood, and serves as bandages for the many wounds they suffer. Geshuggin do not feel pain, do not have any discernible emotions, and do not seem to forget. They have a sense of smell like a wolf's, never tire, do not breath, and cannot speak. Their faces are concealed by smooth white porcelain masks that cannot be shattered by even the mightiest blows from mortal weapons. They will continue to fight even if their ribcages are ripped open, and will not suffer being restrained, doing whatever they must to be free, even tearing their own forearms and shins off when crucified, the one thing they fear above all. They usually fight in groups, but do not use group tactics. They are simply a mass of individuals with a common purpose. They take no orders, not even if magically compelled, unless they are commanded by a servant of Tharalstrazix, human, demon, or Infernal.
    • Emputhanei, the Winged Choristers (Han'ya)
      The emputhanei are Kebrael's twisted attempt at beauty of form. Like the geshuggin, they feel no fear, but love, hatred, and pain are by no means alien sensations. They take the form of red-haired, early adolescent female human children, with their arms replaced by snowy white wings. The upper halves of their faces are concealed by iron masks, and their eyes burn with hellfire. Their mouths are filled with delicate fangs, and they cannot speak except in birdlike caws and croaks. Their feet are tipped in long obsidian talons, and they can heal from wounds supernaturally fast. They are unquestioningly loyal to their lord, and will obey any of his dictates. The song they sing when given any quantity of gold is heartbreakingly sweet and otherworldly, but it pales in comparison to the songs they can produce when fed pure orichalcum. The melodies produced are otherworldly in their beauty, filled with aeons of pain and sorrow and longing to be free. The terrible sadness and awesome madness contained therein has been known to break the hardest hearts and shatter the strongest minds. They cannot abide the gleam of steel or the sound of glass breaking, and can be called into the mortal realm by the wails of a newly orphaned child.
  • Baashayel, the Prince Of Spite, Expressive Soul of Temozarael (Han'ya)
    Baashayel embodies Temozarael's rage and frustration. He is the active soul, carrying out his master's will in the world. He takes the form of a writhing column of blood in the rough shape of a man, clad in robes of the blackest, silkiest hair. No one who has struck him or one of his minions can escape his gaze, but his retribution to them will be proportionate to the slight he has suffered. A proportion of about a hundred to one, but it's a proportion. Every blow he strikes burns his foes with the fire of his wrath. He storms through the world, destroying without aim or forethought, every blow struck against his living prison a blow by proxy against the gods and their servants.
    • Xoxoti, the Feeders Amidst The Fires (Han'ya)
      The xoxoti scurry amongst the mighty pipework of Temozarael's body, scraping rust, corrosion, detritus, and caked Essence from the mechanisms. Their hands are elegantly designed, with large shovel-like claws and a second set of thin, nimble fingers tipped with claws to scrape and clean their master's veins. Their skin is thick and bumpy, covered in irregular growths and wrinkles. They can endure extremes of heat and cold that would make even a Solar with Resistance charms out the butt shudder, and they eat filth and drink poison. Their lives are short and brutal, spent keeping Temozarael in good working order, and frequently dying horrible messy deaths by frying, freezing, scalding, crushing, ripping, or any other plethora of horrible industrial accidents. When summoned, they are frequently used to brave environmental dangers and retrieve artifacts or repair machinery.
    • Shmir, the Wrathful Pipers (Han'ya)
      The shmir are approximately six feet tall, and resemble long wooden staves wrapped in purple silk. Their arms and legs fold perfectly flush against their bodies, and they often remain stationary for days on end. When dipped in blood, their silk wrappings unfurl into two broad wings and their true functionality is revealed. The shmir are living musical instruments that convey their lord's hatred to the world. When they are played, somewhat like a gigantic saxophone, they can drive men mad with the sheer rage of their song. Shmir can be called into the world by the hissing of blood boiling off of hot metal. A shmir's compliance and placidity can be secured by keeping it well-fed with blood and by placing it in a shadowed, dusty corner when not in use.
    • Shallaboth, the Heralds of Misfortune (Han'ya)
      The shallaboth take the form of ordinary moths, unremarkable in every way except for their being the size of chihuahuas with 3-foot wingspans. They are not much use individually, but their abilities are exponentially multiplied when in groups. The unique ability of the shallaboth is their uncanny sense for misfortune or ill events. The shallaboth feed off of sunlight, and unlike most moths are diurnal. They have been known to slip through the barriers around Malfeas and hitchhike on the summonings of other demons.
• Jarlastran, the Mourner of Days Not Yet Dawned (Han'ya)
  Jarlastran, like his brother Temozarael, takes the shape of a building, a great six-legged cathedral that roams Malfeas, sending forth Jarlastran's minions to do his will. Jarlastran makes a habit of collecting the slain bodies of demons, assuming something hasn't eaten them first. He stores them in his vast mausoleum-stomach, where the necrotic Essence produced by their decay is leeched to power the war machines that Jarlastran has stitched to his body. Jarlastran is a gloomy sort, inasmuch as anything is known about him. He wanders Malfeas without cause or purpose, and can often be seen weeping rivers of sewage from his cathedral form. He is antisocial in the extreme, and even his own children are mostly in the dark. Before the war, and the death of the One Crowned With Seven Rings In Quietude, Jarlastran was a neverending carnival that could appear anywhere and anywhen. His imprisonment has flipped him like a coin, revealing the ugly, dirty, and sad life of the carnival when the shows end, and he now wanders Malfeas in an orgiastic frenzy of depression and hatred. When summoned, nothing gives him so much pleasure as to destroy and burn the Creation that rose against him, which he does with skill and initiative. Jarlastran hates sunlight, whether the green of Ligier or the yellow of the Unconquered Sun, above all else and cloaks himself in a black fog wherever he goes, spewed from the smokestacks at the tops of his seven towers.
  • Txil Mahautztli, One Revealing Amidst Black Towers, Messenger Soul of Jarlastran (Han'ya)
    Taking the form of an immense orb comprised of small hexagonal tiles of white jade, Txil Mahuatztli is the only means by which Jarlastran speaks with his subsidiary souls and with others. The death of One Crowned With Seven Rings In Quietude, Jarlastran's voice and expository ability, rendered Jarlastran unable to directly communicate with any but Txil Mahuatztli, his introspective subsidiary consciousness. The great soul rests in a cathedral constructed in the center of Jarlastran's six towers. He speaks to his subsidiary souls not with words, but by emitting light in sequence, pattern, and rhythm from the tiny jade hexagons that form his shell. These messages are an intricate code known only to his attendants, who relay their lord's will to all who would know it.
    • Bhefelsa, the Hooded Attendants (Han'ya)
      The bhefelsa are small, no more than four feet in height. Their skeleton is configured in such a way that hey walk perpetually stooped over. They garb themselves in robes woven of their own threadlike excretions. In form, they are something like a small child with slick skin the color of mummified skin, with foot-long tentacles extending over their rudimentary mouth-holes like a beard. These tentacles are coated with small hairs like those of the gecko's feet, allowing them a fantastic grip on absolutely any solid. They attend to the welfare of Txil Mahuatztli, carving his words into their flesh, informing the other souls of their lord's will, polishing his globe, removing broken or clouded tiles and tending the gaps with unguents derived from their blood. They are of little use to sorcerors, for they wail piteously and wither in despair when forced to leave the presence of One Revealing Amidst Black Towers.
    • Husermus, the Air Illumed By Dreams Of Words (Han'ya)
      The husermus are the flowing atmosphere of Txil Mahuatztli's chamber. The fact is that the great white orb is not in fact awake, but rather dreaming. He is occupied with looking into the soul of Jarlastran, and does this by dreams, which (a school of thought holds) are the mind sorting itself out and cross-referencing information. The truest picture of one can be gained from their dreams, so Txil Mahuatztli dreams and speaks in his sleep. The bhefelsa record his words, and the husermus absorb them, the light and the words in the light accruing in them. The husermus can be summoned and commanded to disgorge the contents of their minds. Their spiritual metabolism converts the light into sounds and images comprehensible to other creatures, if only with some difficulty. A glimpse into the mind and memory of a Third Circle demon can be a powerful thing. Great secrets and great insights could be gained. Great horror and madness as well.
• Anadbagara, the White Queen (Han'ya)