Appearance

Ling Wei glides rather than walks—her serpentine lower body a seemingly endless coil of jade-scaled muscle, each scale etched with calligraphic sigils of forgotten names and silent apologies. Her motion is fluid, almost hypnotic, like ripples across still water. At a glance, she resembles the ancient snake spirits whispered of in mortal myths—half-human, half-monstrous—but to stare too long is to feel the unbearable pull of her sorrow.

Her upper form is statuesque and possessed of an unconventional beauty so profound it borders on ethereal—a beauty amplified, not diminished, by the constant flow of tears from her eyes. She weeps always, her face marked by an ineffable grief that makes her more beautiful still, as though sorrow itself were the final adornment of a perfect sculpture. Her presence confounds the mind; a conundrum of grace and suffering that enthralls even as it horrifies.

She is draped in layered silk garments of shadowed crimson and ink-black, each fold shifting with the weight of her moods. Ornamental chains and hairpins, forged from crystallized regrets, dangle from her long, jet-black hair. Her eyes—when visible—are narrow and gleam like obsidian ink under moonlight. They do not pierce, they beckon, and behind them lies a depthless, ancient melancholy that makes mortals weep without understanding why.

Her face is always partially obscured behind a delicate veil of silver-thread, draped elegantly over her mouth and nose. Beneath that veil lie the serpentine fangs of her kind—concealed until the moment she strikes. To see her bare face is to stare into a void of such sorrow that no spirit has ever left alive. Instead, what onlookers glimpse are fleeting details: a smirk that carries a funeral’s silence, a tear that never falls, a subtle tilting of the head that reads you more thoroughly than any interrogation.

She bears four arms—graceful, poised, and always in motion. Each hand gestures with the precision of a master manipulator, weaving unseen spells, folding secrets into gestures, or tracing sigils of sorrow in the air. She is a shapeshifter without equal, capable of assuming countless forms, and can vanish into shadow as easily as one breathes. Her ability to melt into darkness makes her seem omnipresent within the Weeping Coil, watching always from just beyond the light.

Where other Demon Princes declare their power in volume and fire, she whispers hers through a thousand unseen channels. She carries no weapon, for her body—her voice, her gaze, her knowledge—is more dangerous than any blade. Her very presence stills the air and slows time, the hush before a secret is spoken, or a name is betrayed. Mortals call her the Serpent of Ten Thousand Veils or Sorrow Fang

She does not strike. She ensnares.

Methods and Motivations

The Demon Princess of Misery does not rule through brute strength, but through the inevitability of sorrow. Where others seek conquest through armies or spectacle, she works in shadows and silence, trusting in the power of despair to corrode even the mightiest ambition. Hers is a slow, patient path—one that coils around the heart rather than pierces it.

She is no stranger to the stories of the Hell King. Among the Princes, she speaks of him with a mixture of reverence and quiet defiance—not as a father, but as a phantom who created his children and then abandoned them. She does not rage at his disappearance. She mourns it. But her grief is not passive. It sharpens her, focuses her. To her, the Hell King’s abdication was not a betrayal, but a final, perfect act of cruelty: to forge a hierarchy built on torment and then vanish, leaving his heirs to destroy one another for a crown no one can wear.

She knows that the Hell Crown cannot be claimed by a divided Hell. Only unity will unlock it—but unity among Demon Princes is impossible. They are creatures of conflict, pride, and endless ambition. Yet while her siblings battle one another in futility, she has chosen another way: she will not unite Hell through consent. She will do it through control.

Through the Shrouded Exchange, she gathers not only power and wealth, but information—names, truths, unspoken regrets. Her Ophidia gather whispers with every transaction, every offered identity, every careless phrase. These are not simply secrets—they are steps in a grand design. Because when one knows enough about a being, they are no longer merely known. They are possessed. It is her true gift: to wear the spirit like a cloak, to make another’s will her own.

And among all the names she seeks, there are seven that matter most.

The true names of her brother and sister Princes.

When those names are hers, so too will be their minds, their bodies, and their armies. No alliances, no betrayals—only ownership. She does not seek their deaths. She seeks their service.

Above all, she believes the next Hell Queen must not merely rule. They must understand suffering. Only one who has mastered misery in all its forms can shepherd the Hellstack into what it must become: not a kingdom of fear, but an empire of despair refined into art.

Her enemies dismiss her as a whisper in the wind.But the wind erodes stone.And when all the screaming has ended, only the silence remains.

Powers and Abilities

Ling Wei’s most terrifying ability lies in the Ophidia’s ancient and perfected art of possession. Unlike traditional demonic possession—which typically requires spiritual weakness, infernal contracts, or acts of voluntary corruption—her possession manifests through something far more insidious: knowledge.

The more a being reveals about themselves—their name, their face, their memories, their desires—the closer they are to being consumed. Her possession bypasses consent, morality, even defense, for it is rooted in the metaphysical truth that to be truly known is to be vulnerable. When she knows enough, she does not merely influence; she inhabits. Her victims remain awake, aware, and horrified, watching helplessly as she navigates their bodies with surgical grace.

This terrifying power extends to her Ophidia followers, but in her hands, it becomes something else entirely. Her mastery is not merely of spirit, but of will. With a whisper of regret or a glimpse of recognition, she can pull herself through a shadowed corner of one’s memory and step fully into their skin.

In addition to possession, she is a consummate shapeshifter, capable of mimicking mortals and demons alike with alarming precision. Her transformations are not just physical—they are emotional, vocal, even spiritual. She can become what her target fears, desires, or grieves. She can disappear into mist, blend seamlessly into shadow, or manifest from the tears of a mourning child.

Roguish and elusive, she strikes not from above or ahead, but from within. She dances through illusions, cloaks herself in misdirection, and bleeds misinformation into the minds of her enemies. She rarely raises her voice or hand—because when she acts, it’s already too late. Her opponents have already confessed. They’ve already revealed their True names.

And through those names, they already belong to her.

Long-term possession by an Ophidia of significant power can become permanent. In these cases, the possessing spirit withdraws back to its demon master, but the host’s body and spirit are left twisted and changed. These victims are transformed into Medusas—slaves with serpentine hair, stone-turning eyes, and no will of their own.

Medusas are the subjugated echo of the original self, now repurposed into instruments of their mistress’s design. They run the day-to-day operations of the Weeping Coil—serving as shopkeepers, guards, emissaries, and assassins. Their gaze is lethal, their minds blank but obedient, and their suffering eternal. They are both a warning and a weapon, reminders that knowledge is not power—it is surrender.

Among her most feared powers is the Inkfang Curse, a venomous enchantment delivered through her bite. This is no ordinary poison bite—it is an execution in slow motion, but not for the one who receives it. Hidden behind her silver-threaded veil lie her serpentine fangs, rarely revealed until the moment her will demands it. When she bites, it is not to kill her victim directly. Instead, the venom she delivers is an ancient, cursed ichor which seeps into the victim’s essence and anchors itself to their bloodline.

From that moment forward, those they love—family, friends, bonds of affection in any form—begin to suffer. Slowly. Exquisitely. Each one sickens, breaks, and dies in agony, plagued by nightmares and invisible afflictions that no healer can mend. The afflicted are unaware of the cause, but the bitten is not spared such knowledge.

They live. They endure. They watch, helpless, as their affections are ground to ash—and they are left hollow, cursed to carry the knowledge that their touch, their memory, their love itself was the knife. Across the skin of the bitten, serpent-shaped scars begin to appear—first subtle, then unmistakable—winding around limbs and neck like mournful brands. Her venom does not silence. It isolates. And in that isolation, misery blooms.

Tears of the Weeping Coil

Ling Wei weeps but her tears are never wasted. As they fall—slow, steady, and endless—they are collected by her Ophidia handmaidens in tiny vials of spirit-glass. These tears are not merely expressions of sorrow; they are concentrated misery, distilled grief from a being who has mastered suffering as an art.

Her tears are often freely given, not as gifts, but as instruments and they are prized by both demons and alchemists alike. Their powers include:

• Veilbreak Elixir – When consumed, a single tear strips away emotional defenses. The drinker becomes hyper-aware of their own failures, regrets, and forgotten losses. They cannot lie, cannot feign strength, and cannot resist possession attempts by an Ophidia. Many have killed themselves rather than drink a second dose.
• Widow’s Mercy – When applied to a dying spirit, the tear soothes pain and suppresses terror long enough for an Ophidia to extract information or force a confession. Once the tear’s influence ends, the agony returns—multiplied by the hope that preceded it.
• The Tearglass Mirror – With seven collected tears and a shard of reflective spirit-crystal, an Ophidia can craft a surface that reveals a target’s true self—not who they think they are, but how the Demon Princess sees them. Most who glimpse this reflection become spiritually destabilized and susceptible to immediate possession. This use of her tears within her domain is expressly forbidden.
• Sorrowbrand Ink – Tears mixed with demonic pigment create a rare ink that burns when used to write a target’s true name. This ink brands items, contracts, or weapons with lingering despair, and is often used in cursed items and binding scrolls.

Weaknesses

The Serpent of Ten Thousand Veils is a master of subtlety, but even shadows have their limits.

Her greatest vulnerability lies in mirrors and reflective surfaces. Though banned within the Shrouded Exchange, such objects represent a threat unlike any blade. A mirror shown to an Opehdia possessed spirit can sever her connection, and if held long enough before her own gaze, can momentarily shatter the veils she casts around herself—revealing her true face, her sorrow unfiltered, and even her vulnerabilities. It was through such a tactic that Vandritas and Pergyntus once broke her hold on a powerful emissary, turning her greatest gift—possession—against her.

Her power also depends entirely on knowledge. The more she learns of a being, the more control she can exert—but this is a double-edged blade. Deliberate disinformation, amnesia spells, or creatures of pure instinct or chaos all foil her methods. She cannot possess what she cannot comprehend, and her magic falters against those whose identities are fragmented or hidden even from themselves.

Additionally, the Demon Princess rarely engages in direct combat. Her serpentine grace and stealthy approach mask a truth that many forget—she lacks the raw physical might of other Princes. Should she be cornered, her strength lies in escape and misdirection, not endurance. Her reliance on veils, illusions, and proxies means that if stripped of secrecy and forced into open battle, her advantage all but vanishes.

Finally, her endless sorrow, the very source of her beauty and power, is itself a burden. Her grief is real—ancient, eternal, and at times paralyzing. In rare moments of emotional collapse, when her tears fall too fast to control and her memories consume her, even her Ophidia turn away, unwilling to witness their goddess unravel.

Domain

Principality

The Weeping Coil lies deep within the Hellstack, nestled in a recess of the Throat of Hell, and is divided into three distinct regions: the Shrouded Exchange, the Forest of Hanging Sorrow, and the Labyrinth of Broken Names. Though each region plays a different role in the Ling Wei’s domain, all are steeped in misery, deception, and despair—her chosen tools of power.

At its heart sits the Shrouded Exchange: a grand city where spirits are bartered like coin, and where infernal commerce thrives under an oppressive stillness. This place is regarded across all the Hells of the Hellstack as the epicenter of spirit trade. Here, demons, mortals, and planar travelers alike come to barter, purchase, or commission the spirits of the dead to use in rituals, resurrection, weapon crafting, or power augmentation. These transactions are overseen by the Ophidia, who serve the Demon Princess and enforce her dominion over misery with quiet efficiency. All establishments and trade houses are operated by native demons of the Weeping Coil or her subdued Medusi, and all serve her interests.

Three unwritten rules govern the Shrouded Exchange, and while they are never posted or spoken aloud, they are universally known across the Hellstack:

First, veil yourself. All who enter must hide their faces and identities, lest the Ophidia learn too much and slip inside the mind. To be known is to be vulnerable.

Second, show no insult. The city forbids violence—but more critically, it forbids offense. The definition of insult is left to each establishment, and to provoke one is to risk immediate execution.

Third, no mirrors. The reflective surface of a mirror can break possession, revealing the spirit’s true form. All mirrored surfaces are forbidden, and possession of one carries a death sentence.

Beyond the city lies the Forest of Hanging Sorrow—a haunted woodland saturated with the despair of unfulfilled endings. Suspended from the blackened trees are the spirits of mortals who took their own lives, their bodies writhing and wailing in endless torment. The forest is thick with Ophidia, demonic beasts, and predatory illusions, and while roads exist, none are truly safe. Entry to the Shrouded Exchange is earned through peril or privilege.

Below the surface stretches the Labyrinth of Broken Names, a vast subterranean maze of obsidian tunnels carved in ancient misery. It is less dangerous in terms of monsters—but infinitely more treacherous to the mind. Spirits, alive and dead, wander endlessly in search of a way out, only to forget themselves entirely. It is here that the Demon Princess’s power is most palpable, and where lost identities are slowly, exquisitely unmade.

Demonic Host

While the Ophidia demons form the backbone of her dominion, Ling Wei commands a diverse host that spans the wide breadth of Hell’s infernal species. Imps, fiends, dretches, and other common demonkin serve under her banner, their powers subtly enhanced by the possession techniques bestowed upon them. Though they do not possess the innate mastery of the Ophidia, her gifts make even the lowest servant capable of harvesting truths through subterfuge and whispers.

However, it is the Ophidia who remain her chosen children—specialists in shadow, deception, and possession. These snake-like demons operate the Shrouded Exchange, run the dominion’s infrastructure, and act as the Princess’s eyes, ears, and fangs. Each one is a master of infiltration and ensnarement, and each harbors the same mournful elegance as their mistress.

Outside the city, the Forest of Hanging Sorrow teems with demonic beasts—grotesque, bestial entities that lurk among the trees and guard the writhing, suicidal spirits trapped in endless torment. These beasts are drawn to misery and serve as the forest’s cruel shepherds.

In the Labyrinth of Broken Names below, monstrous ophidian horrors prowl the endless tunnels. These snake-like abominations are larger, more alien, and often more feral than their cousins in the city above. They are born from ancient spells, Deep magic, and the Princess’s own sorrow—each one a living extension of the maze’s function: to confuse, break, and unmake all who enter.

Cults

Mortal Cults

The mortal cults of the Ling Wei are more elusive than most. Her worshippers rarely organize in large, ostentatious groups, preferring instead to work in veiled cells, masquerading as merchants, mourners, undertakers, or even therapists and confessors. They are listeners, collectors of secrets and sorrows, drawing power not from grand rituals, but from the quiet miseries of daily life. Each confession heard, each identity dissected, each sorrow shared becomes a thread in the web their mistress spins.

Unlike the cults of more flamboyant Demon Princes, her followers do not seek to bring about destruction or an apocalypse. Their ambitions are quieter, more insidious: they want to know others—intimately, thoroughly, irreversibly. Some embed themselves in powerful circles, whispering to nobles, generals, and scholars until they’ve learned enough to turn those figures into puppets. Others trade in secrets, bartering with blackmail or whispered despair to spread the influence of their Princess.

To her cultists, full possession by an Ophidia demon is not a curse. It is a sacrament. To be entirely unmade and re-formed into a Medusa—one of her veiled and serpentine-eyed eternal servants—is the greatest gift their Princess can bestow. They long for the moment when their name is no longer their own, when their spirit dissolves into hers, and they become a vessel of her sorrowful will.

The cultists speak in coded phrases, veil their faces in mourning cloth, and often undergo painful rites of silence to prepare their minds for her whispers. Some tattoo the sigils of the Ophidia into their flesh, believing this will make them easier to find. Others tattoo those same sigils in reverse—so they may never forget who they were, even as they willingly let themselves be consumed.

Her rituals are not showy affairs; they are held in darkened rooms, behind closed doors, at funerals, or over whispered prayers offered in the dead of night. They offer tears, not blood. Names, not flesh. And in return, they are granted a glimpse into the slow spiral of despair that binds all things—until they are finally bound themselves.

Preferred Sacrifices

The Sorrow Fang desires no temples, no great feasts, no rivers of blood. What she craves—what fuels her—is sorrow refined into offering. Her cultists know that she hungers not for acts of rage, but for the delicate flavor of despair: regret given form, hopelessness made tangible. Her most treasured sacrifices are those soaked in meaning, not carnage.

The most revered offering is the True Name of another being. Names carry power, and to give away a name is to give away control. Cultists painstakingly gather information, secrets, and fragments of identity, constructing a complete psychological map of their targets before handing that essence to their mistress in a whispered rite. Each surrendered name is another strand in her ever-growing net of possession.

Her followers also offer keepsakes of misery—objects charged with grief: the wedding ring of a widower who took his own life, the lullaby of a mother whose child never woke, or a diary full of unmailed letters. These items are not burned or broken but stored in silence, sometimes hung within the Forest of Hanging Sorrow or hidden beneath the stones of the Shrouded Exchange.

However, the most coveted offerings are the tears of the unwilling—those drawn out not by pain, but by emotional collapse. A silent weep in the arms of a confidant, a shuddering gasp in the privacy of failure, a broken laugh before the end. These tears, when harvested, can be used in rites of possession, enchantment, or even as currency in the shadowy corners of her principality.

It is said that if a cultist weeps during a sacrifice, it strengthens the offering. If the target weeps without understanding why, it is perfect.

And above all, should a cultist surrender themselves so completely that they are transformed into a Medusa—body, mind, and memory remade into eternal servitude—that is considered the greatest sacrifice of all. Not for the pain it causes, but for the joy they feel as they are finally unburdened of self.

Summoning and Rites

The rites of Sorrow Fang are rarely dramatic affairs. They require no infernal fanfare, no shrieking calls to the void. Her rituals are quiet, insidious, and most dangerous when whispered in the dark. Cultists often perform them alone, not out of secrecy, but because misery, by its nature, is most potent in solitude.

The Rite of the Unveiled Heart

This summoning requires the cultist to reveal a truth they have never spoken aloud—not to another, but to themselves. The rite must be performed in a room without mirrors, beneath a veil of any kind. A vessel of stagnant water sits between them, and into it they must speak the confession. The water will blacken as the truth takes root, and if the Demon Princess is pleased, her image may shimmer in the reflection. What follows may be a whisper, a vision, or a possession, depending on the weight of the secret and the strength of the cultist’s conviction.

The Coil of Names

Used to mark a target for eventual possession, this rite requires seven fragments of personal information: the target’s name, a secret fear, a fond memory, the voice of someone they trust, an object they value, the scent of their home, and the shape of their greatest regret. Each item or representation is wrapped in a serpent-shaped thread, coiled together and sealed with a drop of the cultist’s blood. The bundle is then buried at a crossroads or near a source of despair. If performed correctly, the Ophidia will begin to observe the target, slowly unraveling their will over time. No harm need ever come to the victim—indeed, they may never even realize they’re no longer fully alone.

The Veiling

This is not a summoning so much as an oath. When a mortal becomes a full servant of the Weeping Coil, they undergo the Veiling: a ritual binding in which their true name is buried beneath layers of new identities, each one a half-truth or purposeful omission. This rite grants the cultist resistance to rival Ophidia or demonic intrusion, but it also marks them permanently. From this point forward, the Princess may call upon them at any time. Some cultists spend their remaining mortal years unaware the ritual was even completed.

The Medusan Embrace

The final and most sacred rite among her followers, this ritual invites full, permanent possession. The cultist must first craft a mirrored mask, which is then shattered upon their own reflection. Over a span of thirteen days, if they are chosen, an Ophidia slowly possesses them—first their dreams, then their shadow, then their voice. On the final day, the cultist drinks a single tear harvested from the Ling Wei herself. Their body transforms, their mind shifts, and they become a Medusa—no longer an individual, but an extension of their mistress’s will. For many, this is not the end of their story, but its highest purpose

History

Long before the Shrouded Exchange rose from ash and whispers, the Ling Wei was a name spoken only in riddles. Among the earliest of the Hell King’s creations, she was not forged for war or wrath, but for unraveling—the slow, beautiful disintegration of hope. She wandered the Hellplane in silence, unseen and unnoticed, learning the languages of grief before she ever claimed a principality of her own.

Her path toward dominion began with the discovery of her unique ability: possession through intimacy. Where other demons needed consent, blood rites or corruption to slip inside a spirit, she needed only conversation. A shared secret. A weeping confession. Her power, once hidden, blossomed into something terrifying—and the Weeping Coil was born.

In the early days of her rise, she dared to set her sights on the twins: Vandritas and Pergyntus, the Twinned Beguilers of the Bowels of Hell. They were everything she was not—resplendent, theatrical, and above all, adored. Their Principality of the Immaculate Abhorrence dazzled, where hers only whispered. But beneath her quiet exterior, she believed they were like all demons: vain, fractured, and ultimately vulnerable. If she could possess even one of them, it would unravel the illusion of their unity—and in time, the Hell Crown itself.

What followed was a war unlike any other—a campaign of half-truths, veiled messages, and spiritual seduction. For years she sent Ophidia agents in secret, trading names for names, infiltrating their courts, tempting their Perfecti with offers of sorrow-shaped power. And for a time, it seemed she might succeed.

But the twins are not merely beautiful—they are cunning. With the help of their sigil-forged enchantments and mirrored Halls of Scrutiny, they devised a trap. Through layers of reflective portals and spatial echoes, they lured one of her high-ranking Ophidia into exposing their mistress’s influence. Then, in a moment of audacious defiance, they turned her own method against her.

In a grand hall lined with perfectly polished mirror-walls, they summoned Ling Wei herself—reflected a hundredfold in every angle. Each mirror peeled away her lies, each reflection exposed her hidden desires. Her possession unraveled, and for the first time in her immortal life, she fled—wounded not in body, but in will. Her veil remained, but her pride was torn away.

It was this moment that exposed her great weakness to the Hellstack: mirrors. Not because they reveal her form, but because they reveal her. To see oneself as others see them—especially when one is built from sorrow—is to risk collapse. She has since forbidden all reflective surfaces in her domain, and those who dare to smuggle mirrors into the Shrouded Exchange are never seen again.

Though she lost the battle, she learned the lesson. She speaks little of the twins now, but their names remain etched in silence upon her coiled heart. And while the world believes her ambition was shattered, those closest to her know better.

She does not forget. She waits.