Ebon

Squirming knot of wiry limbs and veiny red-black flesh, his skin constantly slick with coagulated blood that never dries. His mouth is far too wide for his skull, split ear to ear, stuffed with serrated, calcified fangs like broken bone. His eyes bulge, milk-white with hairline fractures in the sclera, always twitching like he’s watching fifty executions at once. His nails are blackened needles, filed to hypodermic points for easy rectal entry. He reeks of bile, copper, and burnt sinew. Veins pulse visibly over his tiny frame, pumping stolen blood like a parody of life. No clothing—only trophies: stitched lips, severed ears, a necklace of human sphincters. He was birthed in a Vortheis ritual pit, mid-orgy, when a virgin’s final scream split her sternum; he crawled out of her lower intestine and began feasting on her spine. He's known nothing but service to House Vortheis—gleefully torturing, disemboweling, and burrowing his way through prisoners, rebels, and even inconvenient allies.

Skrivitch is pure appetite for agony. He doesn't just enjoy pain—he curates it. He’s a scholar of screaming, always comparing notes on how long different species take to die when disemboweled face-first. He's obsessive about detail: how wet a throat gurgles when slit at different angles, how far he can get into someone’s gut before they pass out. Every conversation derails into violent digressions: “You ever tasted kidney through the anus? Sweet like liverwine!” He’s loyal only to the Vortheis bloodline and their thirst for spectacle. He mocks everything, including his masters, but in ways that amuse them: his insults are artful, theatrical, grotesque. He interrupts constantly, bouncing off walls, throwing entrails, shrieking obscenities mid-ritual. He’s clever, but never careful—he knows he’s too useful to kill. Underneath the gore-glory lies a deeper cruelty: he kills not for vengeance, not even pleasure, but sheer academic fascination.

Skrivitch wasn’t summoned—he was vomited into existence. During a Vortheis blood ritual meant to prolong a dying matriarch’s life, the process collapsed into a frenzy of mutilation and spontaneous combustion. One chained virgin, flayed too soon, began convulsing as her organs ruptured unnaturally. Her lower intestine bulged, tore, and birthed Skrivitch screaming, teeth first, chewing through her spine to free himself. The cult panicked; half fled, the rest tried to kill the squirming thing, but he slipped between legs, gouging eyes and tearing soft tissue with glee. He fed on the corpse pile, squealing with delight, then presented himself—dripping and grinning—to the stunned Vortheis. They kept him. Since then, he’s been their crawling omen. He’s buried himself inside rebels, climbed spines from the anus up, and whispered execution orders into the ears of nobles mid-feast. He was never taught loyalty; he just likes the way the Vortheis make people die screaming.