Demons rule the vast stretches of Phostus, but though there are many of their kind, not all can claim dominion over the world. The lesser demons must make do with whatever they can scratch out wherever they are allowed, but most have chosen to swear fealty to those more powerful than themselves. In truth, they are just waiting for a chance to betray their promises and seize that power as their own.

But such petty ambitions begin to fall apart as one climbs the hierarchy. It is strange to think that any demon possesses a sense of honor, but as one considers the demonic ranks of Phostus, that is exactly the conclusion one is faced with. Politics and subtlety become far more influential than the clumsy, brutal attempts of the less powerful. Though they are far from noble, the demonic nobility are the true masters of the world, and virtually none can hope to match the highest of their ranks: The Seven Demon Kings.

The Kings each rule from a fortified city built around grand opulent palaces that serve as the center of their vast empires. The Demon Kings' cities are among the few true instances of civilization on Phostus, though they are not the only that can be found if one searches hard enough. Thousands of beings find some small comfort within these cities, swearing their service in exchange for an easier life, and as undoubtedly evil as they are, they are true to their words. You may become their property, forfeiting claims to your soul and possibly that of your family’s, but most of the lords do not press the issue. For them, it is enough to own you, few of their number ever feel it needed to remind their subjects of the fact.

Despite being ruled by demons, life in a Phostus city is not terribly different than the life you could expect to find in any other sufficiently large city. There are markets, guards, taxes, and basically anything else one could think of. The economy is even not all that different than elsewhere, gold and silver drachma being the standard denomination for trade. The one exception to this truism is a demon's payment. They do not trade in precious metal, but instead choose a coin known as an Obol. A coin crafted from a soul. There are many uses for an obol on the world, but generally, it is not wise to traffic in such coinage.

The dragons are allowed unparalleled freedom despite their servitude, but the yoke they bear is one that they can never throw off. Some would say it is a yoke that they hardly seem to feel any longer. They have long since adapted to their role, and even come to enjoy the life that they would have otherwise never known. In many ways, they have become decadent creatures, but the fire still burns in their chests, and they soar the skies with fierce abandon, heedless of the dangers that lurk within the clouds.

The dragons have been appointed the generals of the demonic armies and are afforded respect by the tinier creatures under their command, a respect that nearly borders on worship, and that suits them in a way their kind could never have predicted. The demons are well aware of the dragon’s proclivities, and urge them, subtly, to indulge in the violence that shapes their hierarchy. So long as they remain at one another’s throats, they will never realize the carnage they might turn against their masters. If tested, the worship their soldiers throw at the dragons would wither under the demon’s sway, but it would be devastating in the interim.

The dragons of Phostus are a dark crimson that borders on black and their chests glow with an inner fire, the shadows of bone standing out starkly against the softness of their underside and light spills from between the umbral scales. Thick scales armor their backs, and four immense wings bear them aloft when they take to the skies. They have blunt, almost skeletal maws with bared fangs and sharp, cunning eyes beneath the thick ridges of bone that plate their heads. They have taken to donning armor, not for necessity but merely adornment, an ornate mark of status.

Some travelers might mistake the proud gargoyles for demons, beings with monstrous appearance and a severe manner, but underneath the intimidating visage beats the hearts of warriors, heroes, avengers,… protectors.

Gargoyles have existed for as long as demons have, and they have always stood in opposition to their terrible machinations, but sadly that nobility has cost them in ways most cannot understand. They suffered for many years against the growing powers that took root in the world, a thankless defense of everything they hold dear, but it is their nature to struggle against evil and hatred. A gargoyle could no more stop protecting their home than they can stop breathing the air. In their long fought war, the demons sought some advantage that would allow them to at last shrug off the constant battles against their eternal enemy. Finally, twelve hundred years ago, they did the one thing they knew would break their foes. They lured them into a grand battle and while they were away, the demons destroyed their homes, casting the gargoyles to the four winds of Phostus.

The demons gained the upper hand after that, and continued to rise until the world was all but theirs. And then they turned on one another.

The gargoyles might have been beaten, but they were not a shattered people. In their exodus into the Duidain Wastes, they found new ways to fight, and more importantly new homes to defend. The humans, the ouroboros, even the minotaurs, welcomed them, gave them a new purpose and shared their hardships. Though their numbers were few, they continued to stand sentinel in the wastes and kept their hope alive.

Then came the fall of the eighth demon king and the rise of the Free City, and at last the gargoyles long vigil in the wastes came to an end. They flew in the hundreds from all corners of Phostus, more clans than had been assembled in centuries, they all came to watch over the grand city, and the gargoyle people gained a citadel home worth their long ordeal. There are still clans who watch over the nomads of the wastes, but they are no more than patrols, guardians-errant far from where the heart of their people lies.

Gargoyles are incredible warriors, fierce, and unbelievably strong. They are a great deal larger than humans, approximately the size of the minotaurs, and their wingspan is immense. As strong as they are, however, they do not rely purely on brute strength, and have a great deal of skill with weaponry as well. While their martial prowess is incredible, it is not their greatest ability.

Gargoyles are the strongest white mana casters on Phostus. Their particular specialty is in lithomancy, stone shaping, and that is what has made them such amazing warriors. With their magic, they can turn their flesh to stone to armor themselves in battle, though it makes them far too heavy to fly. That is where their other advantage lies, with the ability to fly. That comes with dangers of its own, but their great leathery wings are perfect for catching the thermals rising from the scorched ground. From their lofty position, skimming the clouds, they can travel faster than most any other being on Phostus and can plummet without warning to give battle at a moment's notice.

Gargoyles are fertile once every decade after their coming of age, and can lay up to five eggs at a time. The eggs are buried in the warmth of the ground for up to a year before they hatch, and the hatching grounds are one of the most carefully guarded secrets of the gargoyle clans. It is at least partly for this reason that the gargoyles so fiercely protect their homes, for they cradle the future of their clans.

Each clan has a unique arrangement or formation of horns that marks them as belonging to a specific lineage. It is not unusual for a gargoyle to spend an inordinate amount of attention on their horns as a result, and while they are not overly concerned with clothing, they go to great lengths to adorn their horns. Clothing, in general, is scarce with the gargoyle people, in part because it is so much easier to simply cast stone upon themself if modesty must be maintained. What clothing they do have is made of either leather or reptile skin.

There is some doubt as to the true number of the tribes of man that actually populate Phostus, but 108 is an ancient symbolic number to their kind and so, regardless of the question of accuracy, humanity has chosen to refer to itself by the old moniker. More than half of humanity's number lives under the rule of the demons in their cities and outposts, perfectly normal lives safe behind the walls built by bloodstained hands. The humans of the cities do not aspire to great things, but normally live satisfying, if mundane lives. They do not strive for more, accepting their lot in the world in exchange for security.

There are those, however, who have chosen to wander the wastes, throwing off the demonic yoke. They eschew the easier life, choosing mastery of their own destiny over the comfort of chains.

The amphin are one of the few people who, even in service to demons, have maintained their independence. They are lore brokers, magi, seneschals, and confidantes to demon nobility, sworn to neutrality by their most sacred symbol: The Knowledge Pool, an almost mythical well rumored to lay beneath the capitol of Mixolotlan.

All water is sacred to the Amphin, who believe it is the vessel of the world’s knowledge. It would seem a strange philosophy to any who do not understand the Amphin’s origin, deep beneath the world’s skin, in the darkness of the underground pathways and cisterns. In that cold stygian darkness, the Amphins have carved out a civilization, a network of tunnels and pools that stretch beneath over half the world. None save the deserpate journey there, for no light exists in the Amphin’s domain. They have no need for it, for they are blind.

Their cultural beliefs begin with the knowledge pool, and the loss of their sight.



Without sight, the Amphin’s hearing has become extremely acute, and is further supplemented by specialized organs. They have tendrils on the backs of their heads covered in sensitive sensory organs that detect mana pulses. These pulses map images in their minds allowing them some form of mental sight, which they believe are a gift from the Knowledge Pool, a small shadow of omniscience. However, when the Amphin travel away from their homelands, the conditions above ground trigger a metamorphosis that cause these tendrils to disappear. Without these neotenic tendrils, their psychic abilities become much more potent.

The amphins share some tunnels, particularly near the surface, with the Ouroboro with whom they have a violent history. However, in most recent eras, the amphin have a practiced apathy towards the “Coatl” (their somewhat derogatory term for the Ouroboro). They have a long-standing arrangement with the other that allows them to pass through the Ouroboro territory unmolested and in return, they give them a percentage of the metal they take from underneath the ground.

The cinders have a legend passed to them by a nameless traveler from a distant land. They call it their secret history, their darkest shame, but it is anything but secret. Everyone on Phostus has heard the tale in one form or another, but it seems the cinders are the only ones who actually believe it. Many believe they're insane because they think such an outlandish story is true. Most just think they're insane regardless.



The cinders are terrible shells of fire, their skeletal visage and broken obsidian bodies bleeding the flames that make their soul. It is that fire that is their obsession and so long as it flickers, it means their lives will continue. However, that flame burns on life itself, but it does not necessarily need to be a cinder's own life. To ensure that their flame is never extinguished, they have found an equitable trade, their services for the vitality of others. They have found no employ more lucrative than that of demons, who pay in heavy obol coins for the cinders to burn so that they do not have to spend their own lives to exist.

Cinders make up the highest combat echelons of the demonic armies, shock troopers, knights, and elite guards. They revel in the violence and find the life suits them well. It is best that they find it agreeable, because few others in the cities wish to have much to do with them. The demons seem to be the only ones who do not mind their presence, and even then, it seems they are more amused by them than anything.

Cinders possess a touch that burns the flesh in a way that will never heal, for it is a necrotic burn that scorches the soul from the body, consumed by the dreadful foe that inflicted it. It is not uncommon for someone marked with a cinder scar to be viewed as a person to pity, and many on the streets begging are nothing more than cinder victims.

Despite finding easy employ in the demonic armies, there are still a few of their numbers who choose to wander the wastes and steal life from whatever they happen across. They are near feral scavengers, who take whatever they can find or kill for. It is not hard to tell a wild cinder from one of the others, for they bear a clashing collection of armor and weaponry without the steady supply the demons provide. Despite their violent and desperate lifestyle, they live a more spiritual life, in some ways, but it seems to only support the other race's opinion that they are all psychotic.

In the vast tracts of history, there have been petty tyrants who have done their best to ascend to heights never touched before, to dominate the world in a way that left no question as to who the master is. In one such effort, the ruler of former demonic city sought to create a new soldier who would reap destruction and chaos untold, to command an army of soldiers that were completely expendable and were possessed of no fear, beings more potent in numbers greater than any other force that had ever been assembled before. These beings would require no supplies, subsist solely on the bloodshed they inflict, and reproduce quickly and in overwhelming numbers.

This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a terrible move.

The devils hatched from that first generation have gone on to become one of the most pervasive and malignant pests Phostus has ever known. In many ways, that demon lord was far more successful than he intended, for he created a race of beings that are cunning, resilient, and utterly fearless. (Or idiotic. It’s difficult to tell at times.) Unfortunately, what he did not predict in his experimentation was that by creating something with so few needs, that they’d have no need to follow his orders. In fact, they almost immediately turned against him and escaped into the wastes. They exist solely to spread anarchy and chaos and have few needs and absolutely no loyalty. They have no civilization nor any true culture, only malice.

Despite their chaotic natures, one should never think of devils as being stupid, lack of self-preservation aside. They are actually extremely intelligent and patient creatures, and though it would seem strange, they are often given to deep reflection. For all the anarchy that they wish to spread, seemingly their only wish, they do fit seamlessly, if at times violently, into existing societies. Be that as it may, they are solitary by nature and a devil should never be trusted. For all the dire warnings and recklessness, they do have their uses to those who are clever enough to persuade them to follow an objective.

Devils have scaly scarlet skin, tiny white teeth, and immense green eyes with an inner membrane. They possess short nubs of horn and thick claws, both of which are glossy and black like their lips, and they seem to have a reptilian countenance about them. It has led some to speculate that whatever they were originally constructed of included aspects of the dragons. This is further supported by their reproduction method, as devils are known to produce clutches of eggs from which their young hatch. However, if there is a dichotomy between the males and females, none has been observed, suggesting they are asexual.

There was a time when the minotaurs possessed an independent society of their own, a great civilization built upon the words and teachings of the celestial shamans that guided their people. That was over six hundred years ago, and in that time, the story of the fall of the minotaurs has reached every corner of the world. It is a tale of corruption and the terrible weight of doing what must be done to survive, even at the cost of everything one once knew.

[quote=”Writ in the Stars”]In ancient times, the minotauren towns dotted the landscape of the mountains, the green caves overflowing with the sweat of their brow and harvest of their labors. They managed to draw out crops from even the blasted ground outside the cavern walls and though the life was a rigorous, it was their own. They made their own path on Phostus, and resisted even the insidious influence of the demon kings. The shamans of their kind divined the paths they should take and warded against the powers that would seek to enslave them. Under their guidance, the minotaurs stood proud and unsullied by the terrible world around them.

However, this was not a task that was easy to undertake. In turn for their leadership and protection, the shamans demanded a tithe, which allowed them to focus on their own work and the fortification of the soul of their people. For generations, it was an arrangement that served the minotaurs well, but as a great famine crept in, the demand began to take its toll for the shamans demands for a tithe did not decrease. Faced with a serious crisis, the shamans took drastic action. The first step, controversial as it was, was to exile all criminals, no matter how minor the crime. They branded them and sent them to the wastes, away from the protections they had known their entire lives.

As time wore on though and matters grew worse, new laws were passed, increasingly stringent and more and more of their people were exiled, and yet the shamans still sat within their pious chambers as the famine became worse. It became obvious that the protections the shamans offered were simply not worth the amount of work they demanded of everyone but themselves. Rather than live under the oppression of the supposed holy men, the minotaurs took the only option they could think of. They chose another path. They fled in a mass exodus away from their homes, to find some way to live, no matter the cost to themselves or their people.

They chose freedom over sanctity.[/quote]

Freedom, on Phostus, is a relative term though. While they have found a way to live by their own choices, most of their kind have had to become sell-swords in order to survive. Those that have not are related to one who has, and their once proud culture has been slowly chipped away by the choices they've been forced to make, like the shards of their obsidian blades, the symbol of their people. Caravans need their protection as surely as they need the nomads of the 108's guidance. Some few have even taken to living with the Ouroboros, but neither is terribly comfortable in the other's presence. The only place where they have found any amount of true prosperity is at the gates of Akaran.

Enma has found good use for the minotaurs, opening his city to them, knowing full well that they have few alternatives. Rather than abuse this though, he has built a mighty army of these people, sworn on a blood oath to fight for him. In fair trade, they defend their families within the walls of his mighty fortress from Enma's foes. The threat, thinly veiled as it may be, is clear. The minotaurs fight for their families, not because the threats beyond the walls are so great, but because they are well cared for hostages within their own homes. The quickest way to ensure the safety of those they care about is not to join Enma's armies, though most do. No, the surest method is found in the pits of Enma’s coliseum. The risk may be greater, but in the long term, it is an easier life and after the hardships the minotaurs have endured, it is one they willingly choose.

The minotaur who chose other cities often take a similar path, selling their services to the gatekeepers and defending the walls of the demon kings' sanctuaries. Many that have none to care for though, have taken a freer path, and have become bounty hunters, roaming the streets and wastes searching for their next lucrative target.

There are some who question how predators, purely carnivorous beings, became the stewards of nature. The answer is a strange culmination of nature and culture that led to their unique social milieu.

In the beginning, the ouroboros were ambush hunters, well suited to the obscuring greenery of their territories, close enough to the surface to maintain heat and sheltered enough that they themselves did not become prey. It was an ideal location for the nascent snakefolk. The plants and shelter attracted prey and their society flourished. However, as time wore on, their numbers swelled and they quickly overran their trap. The prey could sense their presence and their ability to hunt dwindled.

A great exodus followed after the near destruction of their kind at their own hands, and what survivors there were left to find similar homes, but the memory of the conflict and its cause remained, and with it came wisdom. To feed life, there must be death, but to nurture life, one must find a way to nurture all life. With that lesson, they spread and grew, fostering the life of plants that made their shroud, and in doing so, coming to understand the world and their place in it.

As their druidic practices grew, they began to attract attention that they had not before. It was not the eyes of their prey which turned towards their growing people, but instead that of other cultures. What the ouroboros had in great numbers was a resource scarce anywhere else on Phostus. In that awkward first contact, the seeds of their future were sown. They became traders and tutors, demonstrating their ability to grow plantlife to other cultures, trading the fruits of such labor, and gaining both knowledge and food that they did not strive to collect themselves.

In particular, they formed a strong bond with the minotaurs and humans, but for vastly different reasons. The minotaurs had suffered famine before, and the ouroboros had so much of what that exiled culture required in their hour of darkest need. Their trade helped to stabilize both cultures in those early days following their social upheaval.

The humans tribes, however, found something unique in the ouroboros, a kinship based on identity and nature. The ouroboros possess a special trait amongst their kind to ensure the continuation of their race, the ability to change genders should something terrible happen to their population. Humans were among the only other cultures that had such fluid gender identities, and that fostered an understanding that furthered their peaceful connection.

However, not everything the snakefolk encountered would prove to be as fortuitous as their experiences with the minotaurs and humans. While the surface proved fruitful, the depths and stygian darkness from where they drew their waters offered a threat that nearly overwhelmed the ouroboros. The Amphins.

It was only with the assistance of the gargoyles that a treaty was forged between the nature loving snakefolk and the water dwelling salamanders. Treaty or no, though, the hostility between their people is still present and an ever present threat.

The balance of power between the demon kings reached a stalemate since the destruction of the eighth demon king centuries ago. It has left two factions whose hatred of one another has threatened war as much as it has guaranteed peace. They are divided for reasons that most mortals can never grasp, and even though there has been a change in membership over the years, they have managed to maintain the same power balance in all this time.

It should never be thought that just because another demon is a member of the same court that it makes them an ally. Though there are seven demon kings, only six of them claim allegiance to one court or the other. The last king, Lilin, is the king with the smallest holdings, and yet, despite that, she may very well be one of the most powerful beings on Phostus. She perches precariously between the two courts, never committing herself to either, and while she may be vulnerable because of her non-declared state, she is also far more free to play the political games that the others cannot. That freedom has made her too dangerous an opponent for any to openly attack, and so, in her own way, she maintains a hold over Phostus that neither Luxenyx nor Samakira can claim to match.

To the nomads who eke out a ragged existence of tight discipline and rigorous hardship, the people who live in the cities are weak and corrupt, but if faced with the truth, they have to admit that those simple folk are no more evil than they are. That does not mean that the nomadic tribes do not resent the choice the others make, just that they cannot hate them for the same.

The nomads manage to survive the harsh wilderness thanks to their rigid lifestyle. They take nothing for granted and spend a great deal of time securing what resources they can, collecting the rains, trading for goods, and hunting the massive beasts that roam the wastes. Most of their trophies can be found in many of the other races' havens, traded for items or drachma so that they can survive in the wilds. Leather, bone, water, even their considerable skills, they trade everything so that they can live by their own laws. Nothing is so sacred save for survival itself.

As much as they are loathe to admit, they contribute as much to the demon's rule as their city bound brethren. Their goods and trade often end up stocking the bazaars of the cities, and they even going so far as to eliminate the beasts that might otherwise interfere with the caravans and trade by which the cities thrive. They are hunters and they cannot help but take actions that benefit the greater good, even if that good later supports evil.

It is not a comfortable life. It is often not a happy life. But it is a righteous life, and it is scarcely a lonely one. The nomads, for all their sever discipline, are on good terms with many, and have managed to accrue a tremendous number of allies in their travels, a fact which they trade heavily upon.

There is single place on Phostus where the power of the demon kings is not a threat in some way. Limus, better known as the Free City. It is the only such world power not ruled by one of the demon kings, but that was not always true. Nearly three lifetimes ago, a demon ruled Limus, but his own hubris ultimately weakened his power base, his reach exceeded his grasp, and no others would support the weakness his rule brought to them all. In fact, some even whisper that the other demon kings manipulated the events that would ultimately topple him from the throne. Regardless, there came a revolution, his own population settled within his own walls, rose against him and managed to tear him from his castle, dragging him through the streets and publicly destroying him for all to see.

The years following that revolution were chaotic, due in no small part to the machinations that managed to survive the demon's fall, but finally, after nearly a decade of anarchy and upheaval, Limus finally found a form of peace. The city was given over to a new council, a congress formed of the tribes who had led the revolution, and declared themselves neutral ground, meant to prove themselves no property of the demons kings that claimed the rest of the world. And surprisingly, it worked, though perhaps through no bravado of their own. The balance of power upon the world's stage shifted, and suddenly, no king could commit themselves to putting the insolent whelps in their place. If any king tried, it would leave them vulnerable and exposed.

Then strangely, the demons began to see the advantage. So the Free City, known among the demons as the Eighth City, became a haven for the demon's shadowy plots as much as the refugees they had opened their walls to.