Princes of Hell
The Princes of Hell, also called the Masters and Mistresses of Hell or the Lords of Domination are the ruling class of the Devils of the Thirteen-point-one-two-seven-nine Hells.
They are impossibly powerful infernal beings each of whom rules one of the domains of Hell.
The Princes of Hell’s rule over their devil subjects is absolute and brutal. The hierarchies of devilkind leave no room for disobedience or the questioning of aggressively barked orders and many a devil who made the grave mistake of pausing for a moment before following suit has been stripped of their personhood and transmuted into a swarm of barely sapient devil-rats or other such vermin by way of equally dividing their essence among hundreds or thousands.
Each of the Princes of Hell rules their domain with an iron fist and all governmental processes there lead back to them.
The cultural practices as well as ecosystem and appearance of the Princes’ domains are very diverse ranging from tropical rainforests of horrifyingly fleshlike and bloody trees that hide great pyramid cities to frozen wastelands dotted with isolated hamlets of longhouses that undying and violent warriors dwell in.
There are 14 princes of Hell of which each rules a domain while the fourteenth rules the remaining fragment of a domain which crumbled into the Weirdwyld millenia ago.
The Princes are:
Kyrean-Mal ( kyʀiæn- mʌɭ ), Prince of Plague and Pestilence, Who-festers-on-the-wounds-of-Gods.
Kyrean-Mal rules the festering swamplands of [name] as well as the infinite laboratories of horror located in the same. Her gothic architecture penitentiary and lab where those who become indebted to her servitor Devils are made test subject for each horrific new creation of infernal bio-engineering as well as other entirely senseless “experiments” with the sole goal of causing pain and terror in those subjected to them. The swamplands themselves which surround her sanctum are almost as full of disease and toxicity as the former with countless disease carrying creatures inhabiting this realm.
Ponds of stagnant phlegm and bile as well as slow moving rivers of muddy slime, gruel and mud cut through and dot this landscape and connect the domain of the Mistress of Plague and Pestilence to that of various other Princes of Hell.
Kyrean-Mal gladly has her domain accept the tainted fluids, waste material and toxic sludge that the factories, courts and palaces of her fellow Princes excrete.
The Prince of Pestilence also exchanges the horrifying fruits of her labor with the other Princes of Hell and in rare cases other powers that be in return for captured test subjects and raw materials.
Her Aeforma is that of a beautiful woman wearing the garb of a medicus, doktore or apothekary. Her hands are covered by rubber gloves which are covered in blood and what you’d hope is mud. When she opens her mouth you can see an infinite maw of sharp teeth and the smell of her necrotizing gums can make the hardiest vomit.
Her Hrathformae the stink of a weeping sores and vinegar mixing with the sounds of a million different sounding coughs and the labored breathing of the dying. It is the feeling of puncturing a puss filled skin pocket with a dirty needle and the way that spit-out phlegm glistens in the light of a dying lantern.
Va-hael Katir ( βɑ-ɦael kɑtiːɐ̯ ), Prince of Contempt and Bigotry, Which-feeds-itself.
Va-hael Katir rules the cosmopolitan yet horrific metropolae of [name], a sprawling city built in the image of the greatest cities of the Prime World Disk and to rival the City of Judgement yet with its halls of justice replaced by endlessly bickering and corrupt noble courts. Its city is orderly and divided strictly into classes and categories that never mix. Within the domain of Va-hael Katir all things fit neatly into boxes and everything is quite simple with no space nor room for divergence, diversity, ambiguity or nuance. Each inhabitant of the city is sorted into a class and both disobedience and non-conformity are punished swiftly, mercilessly and with overwhelming brutality.
The streets of its city are numbered and concentric with each class of devil inhabiting one square and enslaved servant-spawn being the lowest of all.
Va-hael Katir takes the hierarchies of Hell and maginifies their injustice and cruelty manyfold. The conformity enforcing horror of its domain is only dwarfed by the productivity of its construction projects and the timeliness of its rail system.
Most strangely: the moment one enters its domain one begins a process of transformation which is finished after a full Hassarean Solar Cycle and leaves each individual perfectly conforming to one of the classes of the categorization system of Va-Hael Katir’s ordered utopia. Its Aeforma is a pale blonde handsome man who looks down on everyone he encounters.
Its Hrathforma is a serpentine-lionid ourboros that devours itself and grows with each time it does.
Xhael Jo-haznet ( ʐɑɪl-iɵ-ɦɑzɳɛt ) ), Prince of Misinformation and Fear-mongering, Who-sows-Doubt-and-reaps-Doom.
Xhael Jo-haznet rules a domain thats less solidified than the rest of the Thirteen-point-one-two-seven-nine Hells.
His domain is called the Siphons of Juth and consists of a network of neverending tunnels which are filled with an infinite library of half-truths, full-lies, alarming unchecked facts and theories of conspiracies untold.
The contents of the uncounted volumes of his library are unstable and change each time one unrolls a scroll or opens a tome.
The libraries of Xhael Jo-haznet once were home to the three Children of Conspiracy, mighty devil-offspring of the Prince himself but they turned on him leaving him alone in his endless and furious but nonsensical research with only an army of animated straw-figure servants to keep him company. The alternating of the saddened cries and enraged croaking of the Prince of Misinfromation fills the dank tunnels and all books here are damp and slimy from years of exposure to the miasma of this place.
The Aeforma of Xhael Jo-haznet is a short man perpetually carrying a stack of scrolls, papers or books. He is nervous seeming and wild-eyed and spits as he talks.
His Hrathforma is a frog-like being thats perpetually screaming, smells of rust, sweat and chemicals. The sound of his croaking drives all those who hear it into a state of stupor which leaves them overwhelmingly confident to be equipped to understand and solve any situation regardless of their clear lack of ability and knowledge.
Rhach-Gyr-han Prince of Violence and Incitement, Who-begets-himself.
Rhach-Gyr-han rules his apocalyptic domain, a plain of burning xeric shrublands and sulphur springs from a ruined amphitheater at the center of which lies a bubbling wellspring of clotting blood.
The Congress of Death is where he holds his court and decides with his functionaries which Realms to assault next. The skies of his domain are full of flashing lights and the low rumbling of gunfire hails and explosions with the clashing of blades as the complimentary lightning strikes. Rhach-Gyr-han’s herald and right hand is Rha-Theion, the Scourgehound of War, a truly grotesque abomination of a creature thats large and powerful enough to maim some of the less powerful Princes of Hell themselves.
The domain of the Prince of Violence and Incitement has no notable settlements to speak of, only the Congress of Death at its center and endless plains which bloodthirsty hyenas with manes of hellfire prowl and where every sapient being becomes prey. His domain has no name nor a need for one.
The Prince himself is surprisingly not an overtly violent or horrifying seeming figure, those that met him would describe him as looking more like a cunning statesman or trader than a murderous tyrant, if they could describe him, which they cannot because anybody who encounters the Prince of Violence and Incitement winds up dead and used as combat rations for his uncountable army or drafted into his slave legions never to be heard from again.
Rhach-Gyr-han has contracts with various of the more industrial of the Princes of Hell who deliver weaponry, armor and other such tools of war and war machines to supply his army. He also receives gratious amounts of chemical and biological weapons from his close ally Kyrean-Mal. Rhach-Gyr-han’s army has been camped within his domain for millenia without a true assault. The united coalition of the Princes of Hell, much to the Prince of Violence’s distaste prefer he focus his military superiority on the borders of their domains to ward off incursions from roaming warbands of Demons rather than go and try to conquer and enslave Realms up and down the World Skull.
In his Aeforma the Prince of Violence and Incitement is a statesmanly looking neatly uniformed man with a winning smile thats just a little bit too forced. His teeth grind unnervingly as he grins and the veins on his hands protrude as he grips his distinguished walking stick or clenches his silver pocket watch. There is an air of barely, just barely, ever so barely contained murderousness, love for violence and bloodshed and hatred that surrounds him like expensive cologne.
Rhach-Gyr-han’s Hrathforma is a sudden explosion of sensory wreckage.
His Aeforma as it bursts into thunderound gunfire, ripping shrapnels, whirring barrels of death and the sound of unnatural wings cutting the sky into bloody bits. He is the crying of children and the smell of blood, viscera and dust that when it settles leaves behind only silence once the last sobbing has died down.
Jhir Willach, Prince of Greed and Profit-drive, Who-bought-the-Sky (he/him)
Aeformae: A regal looking man with a winning smile and fine-fingered hands, wearing the garb of a trader and perpetually twirling a golden coin in his fingers.
Hrathformae: The smell of copper, the sound of boardrooms and haggling in countless Languages, the feeling of regret after you impulse-spent to feel something, anything, but boredom and anxiety.
Malhir Thaelwif, Prince of Disregard and Contempt, Who-cares-not (she/her)
Aeformae: An perpetually annoyed looking woman wearing the garb of a civil officer that looks in your direction yet fails to notice you.
Hrathformae: Her shape matters not and it never did but if she had one you’d hate it and you’d know it hates you back.
Eamon Vvyrach-Thavall, Prince of Insecurity and Arrogance, Who-is-simply-better (they/them)
Aeformae: Everything you wish you were and everything you’re proud to be but MORE.
Hrathformae: They’re everything you wish to be but when viewed in a mirror they suddenly look so small, so faint in their presence they might not even exist.
Aandwe Ehamen-Vestor, Prince of Objectification and Possessiveness, Who-ows-the-World (he/him)
Aeformae: A painfully plain looking man with unproportionally large hands. Upper body wrapped in rusted chains and wrapped in the smell of expensive cologne.
Hrathformae: He’s you but in chains, he’s everybody thats ever been reduced to their bare parts. He’s boobs or ass, man, he’s every body shamed for being real and everyone who’s ever felt like control is the only love that they can feel. He reeks of sweat and spit and fear.
Urhelioran-Inswekatah, Prince of Malevolence and Antipathy, Who-breed-and-beget (she/her/he/him)
Aeformae: Split down the middle, one side a beautiful woman the other a handsome man and her face is consistently twitching and twisting into and out of facial expressions.
Hrathformae: She’s the sound of spiteful silence, he’s the sound of bickering and the smell of food you let burn because you hate the one you’re feeding.
Bahel Fhir, Prince of Ignorance and Implicit Bias, Who-knows-not-what-he-does (it/its)
Aeformae: A bored and disinterested looking person who wears thick spectacles and the garb of a noble.
Hrathformae: Its silence and talking all at once, the smell of burned scrolls and books, the sound of unread letters and missed contex clues and subtext. Its a million men who all think that they’re right when they have no idea.
iTh, Prince of Nihilism, Who-simply-is (no pronouns)
Aeformae: None.
Hrathformae: The total absense of meaning, feeling or sensation.
[language-dependent colloquial "John Doe"-equivalent], Prince of Callousness and Complacency, Who’s-only-ever-done-as-told (any pronouns)
Aeformae: A person so average that you fail to remember what they even looked like the moment your eyes move away from them.
Hrathformae: The sound of inkpen on paper, the sound of children crying in a cage, the smell of the corpses of all those who died preventable deaths of starvation or those who froze to death in front of empty houses warm and sound.
Selhyrja Menos, Prince of Neglect and Dereli- (she/her)
Aeformae: An average looking woman that seems bored of you the moment she sees you. perpetually seeking something more interested.
Hrathformae: A half-finished drawing of a man, the smell of unchanged diapers and the sound of someone letting household chores undone because their partner surely will take care of it, not because they couldn’t, just because they can.
Imhaliz Hesathea, Prince of Pedantry and Pettiness, Whose-right-makes-might (she/her)
Aeformae: A woman holding a checklist and papers as well as an ink pen. Taking notes perpetually but her ink is blood.
Hrathformae: Technically exactly what it said on the tin, the smell of ink and cleaning chemicals, the gleam of sterile metal surfaces and the sound of millions going “ummm actually” and “let me just play devil’s advocate, I don’t know if you really deserve rights”
They are impossibly powerful infernal beings each of whom rules one of the domains of Hell.
The Princes of Hell’s rule over their devil subjects is absolute and brutal. The hierarchies of devilkind leave no room for disobedience or the questioning of aggressively barked orders and many a devil who made the grave mistake of pausing for a moment before following suit has been stripped of their personhood and transmuted into a swarm of barely sapient devil-rats or other such vermin by way of equally dividing their essence among hundreds or thousands.
Each of the Princes of Hell rules their domain with an iron fist and all governmental processes there lead back to them.
The cultural practices as well as ecosystem and appearance of the Princes’ domains are very diverse ranging from tropical rainforests of horrifyingly fleshlike and bloody trees that hide great pyramid cities to frozen wastelands dotted with isolated hamlets of longhouses that undying and violent warriors dwell in.
There are 14 princes of Hell of which each rules a domain while the fourteenth rules the remaining fragment of a domain which crumbled into the Weirdwyld millenia ago.
The Princes are:
Kyrean-Mal ( kyʀiæn- mʌɭ ), Prince of Plague and Pestilence, Who-festers-on-the-wounds-of-Gods.
Kyrean-Mal rules the festering swamplands of [name] as well as the infinite laboratories of horror located in the same. Her gothic architecture penitentiary and lab where those who become indebted to her servitor Devils are made test subject for each horrific new creation of infernal bio-engineering as well as other entirely senseless “experiments” with the sole goal of causing pain and terror in those subjected to them. The swamplands themselves which surround her sanctum are almost as full of disease and toxicity as the former with countless disease carrying creatures inhabiting this realm.
Ponds of stagnant phlegm and bile as well as slow moving rivers of muddy slime, gruel and mud cut through and dot this landscape and connect the domain of the Mistress of Plague and Pestilence to that of various other Princes of Hell.
Kyrean-Mal gladly has her domain accept the tainted fluids, waste material and toxic sludge that the factories, courts and palaces of her fellow Princes excrete.
The Prince of Pestilence also exchanges the horrifying fruits of her labor with the other Princes of Hell and in rare cases other powers that be in return for captured test subjects and raw materials.
Her Aeforma is that of a beautiful woman wearing the garb of a medicus, doktore or apothekary. Her hands are covered by rubber gloves which are covered in blood and what you’d hope is mud. When she opens her mouth you can see an infinite maw of sharp teeth and the smell of her necrotizing gums can make the hardiest vomit.
Her Hrathformae the stink of a weeping sores and vinegar mixing with the sounds of a million different sounding coughs and the labored breathing of the dying. It is the feeling of puncturing a puss filled skin pocket with a dirty needle and the way that spit-out phlegm glistens in the light of a dying lantern.
Va-hael Katir ( βɑ-ɦael kɑtiːɐ̯ ), Prince of Contempt and Bigotry, Which-feeds-itself.
Va-hael Katir rules the cosmopolitan yet horrific metropolae of [name], a sprawling city built in the image of the greatest cities of the Prime World Disk and to rival the City of Judgement yet with its halls of justice replaced by endlessly bickering and corrupt noble courts. Its city is orderly and divided strictly into classes and categories that never mix. Within the domain of Va-hael Katir all things fit neatly into boxes and everything is quite simple with no space nor room for divergence, diversity, ambiguity or nuance. Each inhabitant of the city is sorted into a class and both disobedience and non-conformity are punished swiftly, mercilessly and with overwhelming brutality.
The streets of its city are numbered and concentric with each class of devil inhabiting one square and enslaved servant-spawn being the lowest of all.
Va-hael Katir takes the hierarchies of Hell and maginifies their injustice and cruelty manyfold. The conformity enforcing horror of its domain is only dwarfed by the productivity of its construction projects and the timeliness of its rail system.
Most strangely: the moment one enters its domain one begins a process of transformation which is finished after a full Hassarean Solar Cycle and leaves each individual perfectly conforming to one of the classes of the categorization system of Va-Hael Katir’s ordered utopia. Its Aeforma is a pale blonde handsome man who looks down on everyone he encounters.
Its Hrathforma is a serpentine-lionid ourboros that devours itself and grows with each time it does.
Xhael Jo-haznet ( ʐɑɪl-iɵ-ɦɑzɳɛt ) ), Prince of Misinformation and Fear-mongering, Who-sows-Doubt-and-reaps-Doom.
Xhael Jo-haznet rules a domain thats less solidified than the rest of the Thirteen-point-one-two-seven-nine Hells.
His domain is called the Siphons of Juth and consists of a network of neverending tunnels which are filled with an infinite library of half-truths, full-lies, alarming unchecked facts and theories of conspiracies untold.
The contents of the uncounted volumes of his library are unstable and change each time one unrolls a scroll or opens a tome.
The libraries of Xhael Jo-haznet once were home to the three Children of Conspiracy, mighty devil-offspring of the Prince himself but they turned on him leaving him alone in his endless and furious but nonsensical research with only an army of animated straw-figure servants to keep him company. The alternating of the saddened cries and enraged croaking of the Prince of Misinfromation fills the dank tunnels and all books here are damp and slimy from years of exposure to the miasma of this place.
The Aeforma of Xhael Jo-haznet is a short man perpetually carrying a stack of scrolls, papers or books. He is nervous seeming and wild-eyed and spits as he talks.
His Hrathforma is a frog-like being thats perpetually screaming, smells of rust, sweat and chemicals. The sound of his croaking drives all those who hear it into a state of stupor which leaves them overwhelmingly confident to be equipped to understand and solve any situation regardless of their clear lack of ability and knowledge.
Rhach-Gyr-han Prince of Violence and Incitement, Who-begets-himself.
Rhach-Gyr-han rules his apocalyptic domain, a plain of burning xeric shrublands and sulphur springs from a ruined amphitheater at the center of which lies a bubbling wellspring of clotting blood.
The Congress of Death is where he holds his court and decides with his functionaries which Realms to assault next. The skies of his domain are full of flashing lights and the low rumbling of gunfire hails and explosions with the clashing of blades as the complimentary lightning strikes. Rhach-Gyr-han’s herald and right hand is Rha-Theion, the Scourgehound of War, a truly grotesque abomination of a creature thats large and powerful enough to maim some of the less powerful Princes of Hell themselves.
The domain of the Prince of Violence and Incitement has no notable settlements to speak of, only the Congress of Death at its center and endless plains which bloodthirsty hyenas with manes of hellfire prowl and where every sapient being becomes prey. His domain has no name nor a need for one.
The Prince himself is surprisingly not an overtly violent or horrifying seeming figure, those that met him would describe him as looking more like a cunning statesman or trader than a murderous tyrant, if they could describe him, which they cannot because anybody who encounters the Prince of Violence and Incitement winds up dead and used as combat rations for his uncountable army or drafted into his slave legions never to be heard from again.
Rhach-Gyr-han has contracts with various of the more industrial of the Princes of Hell who deliver weaponry, armor and other such tools of war and war machines to supply his army. He also receives gratious amounts of chemical and biological weapons from his close ally Kyrean-Mal. Rhach-Gyr-han’s army has been camped within his domain for millenia without a true assault. The united coalition of the Princes of Hell, much to the Prince of Violence’s distaste prefer he focus his military superiority on the borders of their domains to ward off incursions from roaming warbands of Demons rather than go and try to conquer and enslave Realms up and down the World Skull.
In his Aeforma the Prince of Violence and Incitement is a statesmanly looking neatly uniformed man with a winning smile thats just a little bit too forced. His teeth grind unnervingly as he grins and the veins on his hands protrude as he grips his distinguished walking stick or clenches his silver pocket watch. There is an air of barely, just barely, ever so barely contained murderousness, love for violence and bloodshed and hatred that surrounds him like expensive cologne.
Rhach-Gyr-han’s Hrathforma is a sudden explosion of sensory wreckage.
His Aeforma as it bursts into thunderound gunfire, ripping shrapnels, whirring barrels of death and the sound of unnatural wings cutting the sky into bloody bits. He is the crying of children and the smell of blood, viscera and dust that when it settles leaves behind only silence once the last sobbing has died down.
Jhir Willach, Prince of Greed and Profit-drive, Who-bought-the-Sky (he/him)
Aeformae: A regal looking man with a winning smile and fine-fingered hands, wearing the garb of a trader and perpetually twirling a golden coin in his fingers.
Hrathformae: The smell of copper, the sound of boardrooms and haggling in countless Languages, the feeling of regret after you impulse-spent to feel something, anything, but boredom and anxiety.
Malhir Thaelwif, Prince of Disregard and Contempt, Who-cares-not (she/her)
Aeformae: An perpetually annoyed looking woman wearing the garb of a civil officer that looks in your direction yet fails to notice you.
Hrathformae: Her shape matters not and it never did but if she had one you’d hate it and you’d know it hates you back.
Eamon Vvyrach-Thavall, Prince of Insecurity and Arrogance, Who-is-simply-better (they/them)
Aeformae: Everything you wish you were and everything you’re proud to be but MORE.
Hrathformae: They’re everything you wish to be but when viewed in a mirror they suddenly look so small, so faint in their presence they might not even exist.
Aandwe Ehamen-Vestor, Prince of Objectification and Possessiveness, Who-ows-the-World (he/him)
Aeformae: A painfully plain looking man with unproportionally large hands. Upper body wrapped in rusted chains and wrapped in the smell of expensive cologne.
Hrathformae: He’s you but in chains, he’s everybody thats ever been reduced to their bare parts. He’s boobs or ass, man, he’s every body shamed for being real and everyone who’s ever felt like control is the only love that they can feel. He reeks of sweat and spit and fear.
Urhelioran-Inswekatah, Prince of Malevolence and Antipathy, Who-breed-and-beget (she/her/he/him)
Aeformae: Split down the middle, one side a beautiful woman the other a handsome man and her face is consistently twitching and twisting into and out of facial expressions.
Hrathformae: She’s the sound of spiteful silence, he’s the sound of bickering and the smell of food you let burn because you hate the one you’re feeding.
Bahel Fhir, Prince of Ignorance and Implicit Bias, Who-knows-not-what-he-does (it/its)
Aeformae: A bored and disinterested looking person who wears thick spectacles and the garb of a noble.
Hrathformae: Its silence and talking all at once, the smell of burned scrolls and books, the sound of unread letters and missed contex clues and subtext. Its a million men who all think that they’re right when they have no idea.
iTh, Prince of Nihilism, Who-simply-is (no pronouns)
Aeformae: None.
Hrathformae: The total absense of meaning, feeling or sensation.
[language-dependent colloquial "John Doe"-equivalent], Prince of Callousness and Complacency, Who’s-only-ever-done-as-told (any pronouns)
Aeformae: A person so average that you fail to remember what they even looked like the moment your eyes move away from them.
Hrathformae: The sound of inkpen on paper, the sound of children crying in a cage, the smell of the corpses of all those who died preventable deaths of starvation or those who froze to death in front of empty houses warm and sound.
Selhyrja Menos, Prince of Neglect and Dereli- (she/her)
Aeformae: An average looking woman that seems bored of you the moment she sees you. perpetually seeking something more interested.
Hrathformae: A half-finished drawing of a man, the smell of unchanged diapers and the sound of someone letting household chores undone because their partner surely will take care of it, not because they couldn’t, just because they can.
Imhaliz Hesathea, Prince of Pedantry and Pettiness, Whose-right-makes-might (she/her)
Aeformae: A woman holding a checklist and papers as well as an ink pen. Taking notes perpetually but her ink is blood.
Hrathformae: Technically exactly what it said on the tin, the smell of ink and cleaning chemicals, the gleam of sterile metal surfaces and the sound of millions going “ummm actually” and “let me just play devil’s advocate, I don’t know if you really deserve rights”
Children