must not slack off
must write more
have some ellogean ecology
Aszok, the Venturing Vineyards
Progeny of the Edda Exsanguis
Demon of the First Circle
Elloge's blood is the stuff of stories. Dreams and delusions, lies and lamentation. Visceral Wine is what happens when this narrative hemorrhage is distilled down to its purest components. Purified, refined and fermented in great organic vats. The liquor is a rich, softly shining, scarlet ichor. A spirit that can, for a brief span, transport the drinker to an imagined world. Far, far away from their cares, from their worries and their fears. Needless to say such a drink is immensely popular in the shattered world nestled between the Demon City's ribs. Serfs will beg, barter, borrow and steal to enjoy a cup of a lesser vintage; treasuring the brief moments of pleasant, uncomplicated sensation. Citizens will host lavish banquets, awing others with their wealth and casks of mastercrafted tales; epic stories flowing freely, the guests given a taste of rapture. Those of Ellogean descent are particularly partial to the drink and will often trade their services for a bottle or two laced with the stuff of Creation.
But such a prodigious demand requires an equally expansive infrastructure. And, while some demons taste the currents and measure the cascade, it falls to others to actually brew the stuff. This is the role and function of the Aszok. A nightmare mixture of lobster, octopus, and colossal spider, they daintily stride across the surface of the Minstrel Echo's lochs and flooded forests. Vast, jointed legs suspending a slim, armored oval of a body. Armored tail flexing. The head terminating in dozens of questing, coiling, proboscis-tendrils. The underside of their bellies ringed with calloused, translucent, casks where vintages sit and settle. These redundant stomachs rotated deeper within the body, beneath the armored plates, by muscular thews as the situation requires. The contents injected and treated with all manner of organic reagents as they age. Guided by their masters these wandering vineyards migrate up and down the fluid length of Elloge's ruined form. Greedily supping upon her heart's blood.
Fearsome as they may seem, in truth they are placid, communal beasts possessed of little higher intellect. Brains largely unnecessary when they are so heavily warded by their jagged, scabrous hide; horned and thorned by ivory-white. Such is the nature of Malfeas: attempted raids are commonplace and cultivating Visceral Wine is no easy task in such a hostile, fickle environment. Certain casks must be exposed at different times. Some must get a certain measure of Liger's light, some must settle only in darkness. It is not unknown to see such titanic beasts hunched and huddled together. Regrowing layer after layer of rust-red shell as they bravely face the Arrow Wind. Or to see a river geyser with scarlet as a beast a dozen meters tall swims free from the riverbed. In the end they truly desire little else but to present an acceptable product. It is their purpose, their pride and joy. Nothing makes them happier than the seasonal harvests, where workcrews of demons patiently detach the toughened "barrels" and heap praise upon their heads.
Obscurity (2/3): Binding these creatures to Creation should be a cruelty, without access to the lifeblood that gives their existence meaning any sane, self-aware creature should curl up upon itself and pine away. Fortunately the Venturing Vineyard is simply too monumentally thick to be laid low by such a minor inconvenience. Experimentation has proved that they can and, indeed, gladly will purify even stagnant, reeking mires with a fair bit of success and sorcerers have used them to sustain mortal armies across brine-marshes or trackless sands. Much as their infernal counterparts will sometimes employ in the trains of their armies below (Elloge's blood is, at the very least, nourishing). If properly plied they are also excellent vinters and provide a bounty of useful instruction. A sound investment for any Sorcerer who plans to deal extensively with the Ellogean.
An aszok may escape into Creation when a vineyard is watered with the blood of merciless slaughter and base treachery. A vanguard ambushed. A family cut down. The stilled, stifled stories soaks into a soil and, within four days and nights, a Venturous Vineyard appears to dutifully harvest the fruits.
Katona, the Storybook Soldiers
Progeny of the Silkworm Princess
Demon of the First Circle
If the world will not give us heroes we must fashion them ourselves. In life and death, Heaven and Hell, this fundamental truth holds sway. And in a universe so desolate, so often deprived of goodness, the urge to envision noble saviors is a powerful one. Practically speaking the katona aren't meaningfully much different from the thousand strains of soldiery that populate the armies of Malfeas; weaker than some, faster than others. More dangerous than a few, less potent than many. But for those who employ them there is an inherent virtue to their being. An inspiring magnanimity that restores depleted spirits and lifts tired hearts. To see a battalion of the creatures cutting their way through a melee to rescue a lost warband, to see them bravely covering a retreat in the face of overwhelming odds, is to see hope. A frail, fragile, rarity in the seething cauldron that is the Yozi's prison.
Is this the truth? Who can say? Even a weaver's work may beguile her eye. Even a writer's characters may deceive him. Perhaps such virtue is only a self-indulgent projection by desperate demons, a gaudy mask painted over a hollow, paper-thin construction. A folded shell, bound by orders and driven, golem-like, by a personal story penned by an alien hand. It is known: even demons can delude themselves into seeing only what they wish to see. Even the workmen of the Reclamation are guilty of very human romanticization.
Nevertheless: the Storybook Soldiers appear as any other tome in their dormant form. A weighty book or a fattened scroll, the parchment veined with thin lines of red. The words wet and glistening as if freshly daubed by a brush. If one peers closely they may see the pages softly flutter in time with deep, even breaths. A careful eye may even note that the illustrations shift and change, reflecting prized memories and treasured recollections. In such a state the katona is largely harmless if, at times, restless and prone to pinching hands and cutting palms. When activated they unfurl. Unfold. Vellum and parchment and paper rushing out in a storm. Collapsing itself into a suit of stylized, segmented armor around a darkly beating core. Red mist drifts from a faceplate laddered with slits. Origami musculature flexes and rustles. The opened book brackets the spine. In their hands they clasp razor-edged swords and towering warbows. At an order they will charge into impossible odds or wait, dormant, steadfastly guarding their Master's holdings; an observer's unease aside they seem to take solace in their duties. If nothing else they are very much loyal and loyalty is a currency without peer in Malfeas.
The katona rarely speak, communicating intent through expressive gestures and complex body-language. The written word is sacred to them, the stuff of their creation, and they will not engage in it lightly. Their lettered "skin" frames their essential selves, shrouding the twitching, throbbing core in definition and structure. With an effort of will they may shatter their frames temporarily. Becoming a swarm of pages, a tangle of parchment ribbons, that flows over the landscape.
Obscurity (2/4): Every Yozi have their favored warrior-breeds and the Storybook Soldiers see widespread use throughout Elloge's geography. Obtaining information on their general characteristics is not particularly grueling and many sorcerers employ the demons to guard and monitor their hidden caches of lore, great archives, or sanctum libraries. But it is only those who undertake careful investigation and win the favor of these champions who might uncover the truth: each and every katona yearns for actualization. They burn for it. From clumsy, clay tablet to crystalline First Age reader they edit and self-modify. Endlessly iterating towards some self-evident end. Their arrogance boundless, matched only by their ethic and dedication to their cause.
A katona may escape into Creation when a tome penned all in blood is left to linger on the shelves. The demon taking up occupation of the pages. Sorcerers with such works are reminded to handle them regularly or, at the very least, copy the works in something less tacky.
Inaurata, the Cleansing Crawler
Progeny of the Marrow Prince
Demon of the First Circle
An open wound invites infection and courts contamination; an untreated laceration is little more than an unbarred gate, a warm welcome that beckons gangrenous rot and other blood-borne sickness. The Minstrel Echo's entire worldself is covered in such raw, ragged injuries and her blood courses through the landscape even still. Driven by her shuddering, shivering heart. The vulnerability is obvious and the nature of Malfeas further compounds the issue: the Yozi are ever jockeying, struggling for space. Kimbery cries out and the sea chews the land. Rivers sizzling and spitting as they drown in acid. Isidoros flicks his head and captured detritus rains down. Teeming with a boar's muck and effluvia. Metagaos crawls forth, vines coiling, seeking ever more sumptuous spreads and such an incursion is the worst of all for it brings with it plagues of parasites and stubborn, resistant growth, both coupled to the threat of a hungry Yozi.
The Cleansing Crawlers were designed to serve as one, among many, lines of defense against such dangers. A quartet of heavy, arthropodal forelegs; the limbs fused with slablike shields, tipped in hooked claws to anchor in the earth. A, sinuous, lashing body with hide the shade of fine porcelain; overlapping chitin as hard as tempered jadesteel, layered over with long, milky white spines. A snake's hissing maw; vents within that send the inaurata's potent breath weapon issuing forth. Nymphs the size of a small child. Mature, molted adults as large as a river-barge. A shieldwall-swarm of the demons is a true terror to behold. A mobile artillery line that squirms across the Highlands as fast as a horse can gallop. A moving line of trenches and foxholes, able to burrow down into the river mud in mere minutes.
Their greatest weapon is their chemical spray. A crimson cloud of mist that calcifies and crystallizes what it touches. Petrifying enemies and ruinous swamp-growth alike; rendering inert, impotent, and leaving them vulnerable to shattering by hails of the spear-like utricating spines or contemptuous flicks of a broad-sided tail. Common use sees the inaurata deployed to quarantine blights and contain offensive action. Their arrival heralded by a rolling bank of carmine fog that freezes the enemy advance in its tracks.
In demeanor they are aggressive policemen and they take their position incredibly seriously. Without their work entire swathes of the mythos might fall. Or, worse, be subverted and infected by an enemy Yozi and who could say what the results of such an immense breach would be? Such a position breeds both paranoia and pride. Their armored legs are often fluid-etched with the great battles they've participated in, the great plagues they've forestalled. Their ire at being slighted is immense and their courtship contests are impressively bloody.
Obscurity (2/3): Creation is no stranger to pathogens of terrible virulence. The Great Contagion scarred the world and shattered empires. Nexus-that-was-Hollow holds beneath it an entire city of plague-dead and it is far from alone. Even today, in this Fallen Age, entire metropoli may be depopulated by pox and plague; rendered desolate and deserted within a Season. At times a heavier touch is called for containment and the inaurata hardly need encouragement to go about their duties. They are no less potent on the field of battle and are an impressive shock-force but sorcerers would be wise to bind them; to a demon one germ-bag looks much like the other. Men and women of a more gentle disposition may instead summon the beasts to milk their venom-sacs. Heavily diluted such demonic toxin is a powerful coagulant and able to staunch even the most terrible of wounds.
A Cleansing Crawler may escape into creation when a city's quarantine is broken. Panicked infectees fleeing into the dark, evading mounted patrols and search parties; destined to spread their doom far and wide. Salvation comes from an unlikely source as demons from hell gleefully pounce upon such poor souls. Cloaking them in ruby red and shattering them into glittering shards.