Serpentine Demon who holds the core of Ixut - Lord of the Weavers
“The Despot”, a name said in a hushed whisper with numbing notes of fear. The Lord of the Weavers is a truly massive being of Soulsteel and wrath, nearly ten feet tall – the chilling fiend is a wriggling mess of undulating limbs ending in cruel claws.
Every action radiates his will – a preverse drive to serve his vision of the Maker. Zealous, cruel, and imposing – an enemy of man and one of the only true Champions of Autochthon. Fighting not for Divine Minister or Nation – God and Fear are his masters.
This world – it stinks of death and you can feel the death rattles with ever fiber of your being. What does it mean to be a Gremlin – it means you have connected with Autochthon in a truer sense than any who dwell within him. You feel his pain, his soul cries for release from the torment – and you want so despairingly to grant him his desire.
The Minister Ku, he has felt this pain for so long, he is an awe inspiring being. When a mortal has had all the flesh burned from his body and his insides becomes a heaving mass of sickly ichor – what do you think grips his mind? Does he look to the eyes of his workers and colleagues to see if they continue to work under his orders, think of the wealth left behind and the enemies that will never be slain, of beauty and art and the fruits of the mind? No. Pain consumes the mind and all that remains, as a whimper, is fear. Fear of the end, fear of something worse after the pain is gone, fear that even searing nerves is a kindness to what comes after. That is how we resist the call – fear is our anchor.
Even now I wish to rip out my Makers throat and allow him peace – but I fear there is no peace to be had. That when the body loses it’s fight – the soul is merely left naked and alone. Even when the body is gone, the soul goes through the motions. I’ve heard the Void, it’s maddening silence. I’ve felt the Void, it’s horrid chill. It sits like weight upon the chest – robbing you of breath and warmth. When the Void is able to touch the soul of the Maker directly, what torments must he face. I will not allow this to happen – if I must destroy every metropolis, annihilate every trace of this selfish and ravenous humanity, strip all mortal works down to fed the heart-fires of the maker – it would be my deepest pleasure.
Alternate Form: Child