History

Before the disastrous events that changed them into the Yokai, the Charmolipi pack, much like many of their Wolven kin, were natural hunters of the living dead. Predominantly composed of the Fox subspecies of Wolven, they honed their hunting skills just as others of their kind did. However, while the average Wolven trained only against reanimated corpses, the Charmplipi specialized in the divine undead. This led the Charmolipi to develop specialized skills and rituals, often employed on the forces of Malagant and his angelic host of commanders, who plagued the forests of Aslak while he made war with the neighbouring Savar. Often when a large enough horde was spotted in the Aslakian forests, there would undoubtedly be a Master of Autumn’s dark angels in command. While their pack brothers and sisters made short work of the undead, the whip wielding Mastigio of the Charmolipi would target the angelic leaders, binding them with secretive rituals before dispatching their warrior caste to remove their hearts.

While the Charmolipi were respected by other Wovlen packs, they were unfortunately not very well liked. Their knowledge of the otherworldly as well as their strange secretive rituals and rites caused them to be mistrusted by most of their kin. This was unwarranted, however, as the Charmolipi were incredibly good natured, if not perhaps a little bit dark. This mistrust forced most of the Charmolipi to socialize with their own members. They became bored when not on the hunt and their resentment evolved into a mischievousness, especially towards those that treated them poorly.

In the summer of 2262, everything changed. A call for aid, desperate and pleading, was received to Alpha pack leaders in the city of Potmia. Undead forces had gathered in droves to overrun the Hobling settlement of Chisaka Beri, in the northeast of Teris. The horde was growing abysmally large as more yet gathered with every passing hour. Worse still, the Archbishop of the Church of light, Roderick Hale, was currently missioning across the Western continent to spread the Word of Light, and at the time of the missive he was scheduled to be within the settlement’s very walls. The desperation of the plea was entirely weighted in its poignancy, wasting no time nor ink.

“Send aid,” the letter read. “Send the Charmolipi. We cannot hold for long. Make haste.”

When the Charmolipi finally arrived it was to find the settlement of Chisaka Beri in near ruin, and the battle itself to be all but over. The pack leader of the Charmolipi, an Alpha warrior with fur as white as snow by the name of Scythea Pyranos, bravely led her forces through the tattered roads of what was once a vibrant and peaceful Hobling city. She and fifteen of her most elite packmates, the wicked and wondrous whip-wielding Mastigio, were accompanied by a large contingent of fighters and mages. The group navigated the ravaged alleyways towards the central courtyard, every bit the true hunting party they were known to be. Bloodied and broken corpses of Citadel Defenders lay strewn over every surface, be it floor, object, or structure. Like dolls, they were scattered and discarded as a child would a toy with no purpose left to serve. And yet, more horrific even than the bodies, was the sickening quantity of blood. The scene was horrifying, as though torrents of crimson rain had fallen upon this forsaken place. Cobbled walls and wooden slats were painted with scarlet gore, a flower shop appearing drowned in red, choked and drooping with blood. The streets and steps were drenched and slick with blood of the slain. Scythea sniffed the air, expression sharp with a grimace, then spoke to her packmakes, “This scent is neither undead nor angel. It is acrid, foul, and dark. This reek, this… vile and putrid stench… it’s demonic!”

Just as the words left her, in the near silence that befell the halted party, there was a squelching footfall and the sound of something wet unfurling… The sound of liquid dripped down upon the ground with a resonating plip. The sound that broke open the storm. “Ambush!” The warrioress called with valiant urgency and experienced composure. Immediately, Scythea angled her Doru and Xiphos defensively against a demon that seemed to emerge from the very walls of the alleyway. Her kin responded in the same breath, fighters and mages coming alive as the elite Mastigio leapt into action. They brandished long whips with a thunderous crack, gleaming with barbs that promised pain—and scars. Most importantly, however, they promised restraint.

“Mastigio!” Scythea called in command as her Xiphos blocked a savage overhead from a clawing demonic hand, large and dripping in blood. It snarled, eyeless above her, spraying red from its gaping and fanged maw as it vyed to consume her like it had the last warrior, and those before them. Swiftly, her Doru speared through its chest, and it answered with a howling screech of agony. She pierced the heart and, with a twist, Scythea ripped out the organ and finished her order. “Lash them!”

The creature was the first to fall in the frightening fray, and the expert warriors—so adept in their trade—made short work of the demons. Scythea and the Mastigio operated with a deadly harmony, working in tandem to attack and subdue a dozen or so demons. The thunderous and tell-tale crackling of their whips left no foe unscathed. While the barbs on the whips served to secure and lock into their prey, the whips themselves acted as a link into which the elite warriors channelled a paralyzing effect, rendering foes immobile and vulnerable for other packmates to do as Scythea had done, taking the hearts from their chests. They expertly dove upon every opportunity, forcing either blade or claw into each and every chest to tear out the still-beating hearts of the demons before promptly crushing the vile things and moving onto the next.

“Lash them,” was their command, and lash them they did. They fought all the way to the central courtyard, leaving a carnage of their own in their wake.

It did not end at the courtyard, however. Upon arrival the pack was met with yet more dead—more Citadel corpses. Among the field of death stood a man, mortal and the better-part of middle-aged, with greying hair and pale skin, but eyes that shone as blue and raging as a sea at storm. Archbishop Roderick Hale. He stood in defiance, dressed in brilliant robes and a crowning mitre as shining as the light he championed. Held aloft in his hands was a tome that pulsed with golden energy, thick ropes of light smiting and holding at bay the lesser demons who sought to break their final stand.

At his side was surely Asher of the Dawn, a young Wood Fae Paladin as radiant and terrible as her name, wielding a great blade—glowing and golden as a beam of sun, to strike down the fiends of gore. Innocent Hoblings, dozens and more, sought refuge behind them, with women and children among the crowd. Both of them stood in opposition to a great and dreadful Demon Lord of Gore, and servant to The Prince of Blood himself: Baron Abraxyys. Neither horned, nor winged, this demonic being was sickeningly huge, with arms that creeped long and deadly like twin blades hewn from flesh, blood, and bone. Most frightening of all was the erratically pulsating heart, bared to the world yet bound protectively to the demon’s chest with chains of iron. The chains were so constricting that the organ gushed and squirted blood from betwixt its bindings. It’s very voice; hoarse, guttural, and gurgling all at once, churned bile in one’s stomach.

The Baron laughed then in the face of the Archbishop’s incantations, with dark and dreadful arrogance so menacing it chilled. The majority of his horde of Blood and Gore Demons, however, remained curiously idle for the moment, as though awaiting their master while he humored the mortals and their words. Amidst the atmosphere, fogged and ashen with death and decay, the Blood Demons appeared as gorish wraiths. Almost entirely wrapped in chains made of thick blood which dripped as unendingly as the blood from gangly red hands, the demons radiated an aura of terror, with razor sharp claws in varying shapes reminiscent of devices reserved for torture. One in particular carried on one hand a spiraling pick of crystalized blood, two more limbs were needle-like and hollow, and another appendage made in the same fashion was shaped with a small hook at its end. A chunk of suspicious matter still clinging to the end gave reasonable indication to its purpose. The most popular of tools, second to blades and barbed spears, was a jagged thing no different than a saw. Some were the size of a single claw, or two, others… The entire arm. Though idle, the demons appeared no less deadly. Over the din of guttural growls, and shaking breaths, the Archbishop’s incantation rang crystal.

“I speak your name, Baron Abraxyys, The Bloodletter, Anointed Scourge Lord of the Goreborn, Order of Grume! These mortals are under my protection. I cast you back! Slayer of The Holy Nine, defiler of the Everborn, the Sanguine drenched. You shall come not a step further! I am the Church of Light! I speak with the voice of the Gods themselves, and their power is mine to command!”

Despite the unwavering conviction within the man’s booming voice, and the impressive display he made against the lesser demons that poked and prodded their line, the Demon Lord of Gore cracked a sickening smirk in mockery. His laugh, no longer subdued under-breath, grew in volume, becoming as sinister and menacing as the being himself in interruption of the feeble mortal. Clearly, he’d had enough stalling.

His voice grated out, notes and inflections of demonic upon his vile tongue. “Your powers may save you from dissection and torment, Archbishop,” he started scathingly, undeterred. “But these… Hobling whelps, shall feel the stinging touch from the flensing blades of mine kin. I shall cut into their very spirits, and you will do nothing but watch in hapless horror—can do naught else! Oh, how I shall revel in your torment…and theirs.” The smirk deepened, and the creature that was the Baron Abraxyys seemed to raise his bladed arms with an intake of breath. Roderick, Asher, and the Hoblings all seemed to hold theirs, bated as hope flickered before them as does a waning candle.

“Oh, Prince Mara’bagash, the mortal hosts await. Bring forth your Reign of Blood!” Abruptly, crimson chains soaked in blood burst forth from Abraxyys, finding purchase in the very fabric of reality, beginning to tear open a Hell Portal in the sky itself. Winds became erratic, a bloody miasma seemed to swirl and grow as yet more blood flooded out from the angry scar above the courtyard. With every drop that fell upon the bloodsoaked stone, the fluids seemed to gather. Coalescing into yet more ghorish fiends, this time taking form as winged phantasms of blood, a horrific amalgamation of etheric gore that seemed to hungrily flood toward the cowering Hoblings in droves. They moved quickly, with each Phantasm that latched upon a new host leaching itself into every orifice possible, invading, consuming, and taking over the Hoblings’ entire being. The sounds that followed this horror were abominably sickening as they choked upon blood and bile. So agonizing was their pain that it could be heard throughout all of Teris, and yet, perhaps the only thing more abysmal was the finality that came with the visceral sounds of cracking bone and tearing flesh that followed once the possession had begun taking root.

A fire was kindled within Scythea and her kin, angry and urgent, and again their reactions to the order that she turned back to give were instantaneous—as though they were all of one mind. With a voice like raw thunder, the warrior boomed, now brandishing her own whip. “Mastigio, LASH IT!” The Mastigio swept towards Abraxxys and his horde with purpose, prioritizing the imminent threat of the Hobling’s impending possession. Their movements deft and agile as they flitted and dodged the unnaturally sharp serrated hooks and other torturously shaped bladed fingers of the lesser demons, along with the mouths more than wide enough to decapitate anyone too slow to avoid their snapping jaws. The Mastigio’s signature whips uncoiled at their sides as they closed the distance, the sound of clinking iron barbs and weighty leather cord appearing deceptively heavy. Quick as lightning, they lashed out the instant they were in range of the Demon Lord of Gore, and struck in unison to bind the beast, immediately channelling into them.

Again, despite being bound by several of the Mastigio’s whips, the Baron appeared no more bothered by them than a serpent would a rodent. In fact, it appeared that for him the dance had just begun.

“What feeble chains you bring…” Abraxyys chortled darkly. The clanking and grating of metal upon metal could be heard from within the demon. The bloodied chains that bound its heart in place shifted free to burst open from its chest cavity, and several chains more streamed out from the gaping opening. The heart, less obscured now, appeared shrivelled and dark, pulsing unnaturally as the chains around it unwound and began striking out indiscriminately. A frenzy of calamitous chaos… Of disorienting and razor sharp links of bloodied chains that hewed and reaped all that came to feel its searing sting, and more. The limbs of the Charmolipi were severed, and several of their number were relieved of at least one arm or leg as the Demon quite literally cut himself free of their binding. Where their wails of pain rang out into the stagnant air, others were cut off abruptly with a piercing shriek, unlucky enough instead to be cleaved right in two. Or perhaps it was luckier their suffering was shorter lived.

As the chains retracted, beginning to wind and slink back into place within the Demon Lord, the dying wails, and gargled breaths slowly began to subside. It had felt like centuries, that moment, but couldn’t have been more than seconds, if even a minute. Scythea, breaths ragged, brow furrowed and wet with perspiration, and absently favouring her left arm, was left aghast. The sight of seven, nay… Ten of her fifteen Mastigio laid slain before her. Shredded, in pieces, and sightlessly staring into the abyss that had taken them. Only five besides her were left standing, and as the moments seemed to slow, the dread opened to confusion. A drop of blood fell from one of the dead and into the pool the courtyard had become, slow and heavy, and the splash it created was so distinct Scythea was now certain.

Time had really slowed.

The woman looked back at Roderick Hale in the same moment he began to shout towards her, the pair of them alone seemingly unaffected by the slow of time.

“Vesmir is with us today, praise the Light! I channel his miracle now, but we do not have much time. You must take his heart before the chains return. Quick, while he is yet vulnerable. Be warned, child. There will be a price,” he ended cautioningly, but there was never a doubt between them on what Scythea would do—what she would have to do. Price be damned.

In answer, she offered only a firm and single nod.

A look of grim determination, shadowed and steeled, settled upon the Alpha as her hawk-like gaze swept across the dead and the Hoblings yet cowering or struggling against the corruption of the Phantasms. It had to be stopped. Abraxyys had to be stopped.

Methodically, Scythea began coiling her whip.

Between her and the Demon Lord stood a number of lesser demons, all slowed and some mid-strike against those that remained of her kin. She started forward, picking up her pace through the frey as the fiends slowly began to regain themselves. Closing in upon one demon set to tear another Mastigio open at the middle, Scythea pulled back her arm and launched her Doru through its throat. She passed the creature before it had time to even bleed, and her whip crackled free to lash behind and find purchase over its clawing arm. With a tug and aided momentum, the demon was yanked backward to sprawl dead into another that seemed ready to strike a companion. The warrior continued this way, a ferocity and urgency pounding through her veins as she wove through the web of gore and enemies toward Baron Abraxyys. Even rushing as she was, the woman was no less efficient, using her whip to launch into foes and similarly drag them toward her into her waiting Xiphos. With every passing moment the fiends moved faster, however, beginning to react to her swift approach as time realigned itself once more. She’d run out of time and the seconds ticked by. Scythea skirted the two Gore Demons that stood sentry before the Baron, embedding her Xiphos into the giant horror’s thigh mid-sprint with a well-aimed throw, and leapt upon it. Her whip lashed around his neck as an anchor, and powerful limbs reacted in a desperate launch upward even as the Lord of Gore let out a grunt, his blade-like arms bending inward, though mercifully still affected by the waning miracle the Archbishop channelled.

With nothing else save her whip, and in the face of a decidedly confused looking Abraxyys, Scythea reached into the gaping gore of its vile chest, and with two hands prized the accursed organ from its place within. Bloodied chains snapped like gushing vines, and the second the links were severed entirely, time seemed to rush forward. With the miracle ended, the Baron fell to his knees instantaneously, clutching the hole in his chest. Scythea dropped to the ground with a stagger, managing to land on both feet, but her breathing was ragged–her form visibly shaking. Around them, the miasma swirled viciously, and the surrounding lesser demons of Gore and Blood let out ferocious and indignant howls as they were sucked into the Hell Portal. It closed upon them with the last retracted chain, and all the blood spirits still working to possess the Hoblings were stripped from their would-be hosts, and drawn forcefully into the large and shriveled heart, thrumming in the palms of Scythea’s hands with an ebbing darkness.

Scythea, struck still, had only a moment to see the Hoblings had returned to themselves before chains burst forth once more—this time from the heart itself. Fleeting relief was suddenly replaced with an agony scarcely imagined as the demonic links pierced and drilled into the Alpha’s very chest. She cried out through gritted teeth, unable to let go of the organ as pain laced through her body.

Baron Abraxyys laughed from his place kneeling on the stained earth, sending rivulets of blood pouring from a mouth most cruel.

“Fool,” he croaked over her shuddering gasps, a sound like moist gravel from an ever-fresh grave. He hadn’t lost even a shred of nerve. “I serve the Prince of Blood. If he cannot have the Hoblings as hosts, then he shall take you… and yours.” It was then, at his final word, when the chains began to grind, pulling taut as it forced Scythea’s body to absorb the malevolent and abhorrent heart of the Demon Lord of Gore. They pulled flush to her chest, and try as she might there was no stopping them. The chains tore into her, forcefully carving room for the heart of the demon, as her own was unceremoniously torn free and tossed to the bloodied ground. As the demonic heart took its place, Scythea could no longer contain her agony, screaming toward the scarlet sky and trembling in anguish.

Through all the pain, she felt a twisted and vile change wash over her. Scythea Pyranos, Alpha warrioress of the Charmolipi and Mastigio, fought for every word thereafter.

“I… cannot control it!” She rasped. Hoarse, bloodied, broken, and with every second that ticked by, growing more corrupted by the demonic will of the invading heart. “He is too powerful. He… He is taking my spirit. Using my blood… Our blood!” She finished with horror in her eyes, the realization of just what the price to pay would be.

With trails of blood streaming down from her eyes, she turned to the five remaining Mastigio, and with a barely audible whisper she cried, “Mastigio… lash it.”

They heard it in her voice; the desperate hiss beneath the whisper as she fights for breath and control. Still, each of them shook their heads in pained defiance.

“No, my Alpha,” answered one. “You are no demon! There must be another way!”

Scythea shook her head.

“…If you do not do this, then we will all become demons.” She spoke low, arms cradling her pulsating and gored chest. Blood leaked over her arms, but adrenaline and the gravity of what must be done numbed her into some semblance of sobriety amidst her torment. She summoned authority back into her voice, throwing what yet remained of her untainted will into her command. “Obey me, my Mastigio… LASH IT!”

Her wail was as thunder, resonating against the tainted heart that pulsed in her chest. The final thrum seemed the catalyst to what followed. The horde of ethereal blood spirits, now bound to Scythea and her lifeblood, expelled from the organ in gushing streams of sentient blood, searching for more. Phantasms raced across the courtyard, entering the remaining Charmolipi in the area, and beyond. Hundreds of spirits shooting in all directions in search of more Charmolipi to possess and take root within as host bodies. As they did, Scythea’s once moonlit fur bled with stains that seemed to surface from her very flesh in shades of crimson, streaking and forever marking her coat. Furthermore, runes, both dark and demonic, etched as blackened sulphur upon her face and neck, burning into flesh and fur indefinitely.

The other Fox Wolven pack, too, began to break and twist, bloody streaks painting themselves by a hand unseen unto fur with similar demonic runes etching across their faces and necks. With the horrific sight of it all unfolding before them, the remaining Mastigio understood at last the risks at stake. Barbed whips uncoiled in solemn acquiescence, and wasting not a moment more, the five let loose their lashes upon their bloodsoaked leader. Beginning to change themselves, the Mastigio nobly ignored the pain and channeled into their prey, binding her as they would a demon. Held tight by their magic, the transformation inflicted upon Scythea and the other Charmolipi ebbed to a halt, but… Unlike the Hoblings, it did not reverse.

Geography

The Yokai are a nomadic people, given freedom to wander all lands under the Church of Light. This right is enshrined with a proclamation given by Archbishop Roderick Hale, and can be found below.

“On this day of July 20th 2263, I, Roderick Hale, Archbishop of the Church of Light, do hereby issue this proclamation in recognition of the sacrifices of the Charmolipi people in the defense of the Hobling settlement of Chisaka Beri.

The Oathmaker calls upon his faithful to protect the weak and innocent without regard to your own safety, and on this day these holy words have never rung so true. When the hordes of ravenous undead came for the helpless Hobling people of Chisaka Beri, the Wolven clan known as the Charmolipi answered their desperate pleas for aid. Even when these skilled slayers of the dead were instead greeted by the demonic soldiers of Hell, they did not falter. Through gore-slicked streets they pressed on, dispatching any demon foolish enough to come between them and those I held safe behind my holy light in the town’s square.The foul and wretched Demon Lord of Gore, Baron Abraxas, held court there and was not so easily dispatched. As much as it pains me to admit it, even my power would not have been enough that day, and it was only thanks to the sacrifice of the Charmolipi that disaster was averted. Even so, it is a terrible tragedy when a people that so reflect the teachings of the Light to fall to the curse of the demonic. We thank the Charmolipi and their former leader Scythea, for imprisoning the destructive force of the Demon Lord of Gore within herself. Her spirit and the Demon are now one, and while she may be damned, may her sacrifice not be in vain, and may the Light forever shine upon her people. 

 Although Scythea is lost to us, her people are not. Though they are afflicted with a powerful demonic curse, our brightest demonologists have determined that those of strong will can keep their demon at bay. Furthermore, they have discovered that these imprisoned demons begin to gather strength if the afflicted Wolven stays in one area for too long. As this could lead to them becoming fully possessed, and for the sacrifices made by their people, the Church of Light hereby grants the people of Scythea complete freedom to roam across our lands as they will, and we call upon all neighbouring nations to follow suit.

With the blessing of the Hoblings of Chisaka Beri and the Church of Light, the Charmolipi have taken a new name to follow their transformation. They are the Yokai, the Lashed.”

Following this proclamation, the Yokai have gathered into small nomadic bands that travel across the lands of Maud’Madir, not unlike the caravans of the Ajaunti. They do not shun the company of the other races, and will welcome those that wish to travel alongside them, even settling down in one place for a short time. However, should they feel the demon within becoming stronger, most Yokai will pack up and leave rather than recklessly endanger their companions. They can be found passing through most towns on the continent of Maud’madir at some point, although most tend to set up camp in the lands of Teris and Tiefanue. Those that reside in Teris rarely lack for food, companionship, or shetler, as the already generous Hobling people are quite eager to share their bounty with their Yokai saviours. Indeed, most Hoblings would consider a hungry or cold Yokai a personal affront to their honour as hosts, and seek to rectify that forthwith.

The majority of Yokai honour Scythea’s sacrifice by roaming the lands of Maud’Madir as small bands of demon hunters, seeking to contain and destroy demonic influences and forces wherever they find them. Although some within the Church of Light and the Whiteraven Alliance are wary of the Yokai due to their demonic background, most still see them as a powerful tool to destroy evil thanks to Roderick Hale’s proclamation. These hunting groups are often called Daímonas Kynigos, and operate similarly to the Wolven cousins that hunt the restless undead hordes. Many of these Yokai are Witch Hunters and cast powerful psionics well suited to the destruction of their demonic prey.

Not all Yokai hunt the demonic however, and one Yokai pack of note within the lands of Teris is known as the Komorebi. They are a peaceful band of artists, with many keeping to their tradition of Rakugo. They include dancers, singers, performers, courtesans, painters, and more. The Komorebi earned a reputation for bringing much light to people around them, despite their grim and demonic history.

The third largest group of Yokai are known as the Songbirds, these devout Cassandra worshipers are so named for their practice of singing to those they can’t save, to provide at least a small measure of comfort as their life fades away. When a great tragedy strikes an area, the Songbirds travel there to help heal those that are in need during its aftermath. These Yokai know well the darkness within their own souls, and want to save others from the same suffering and uncertainty they know. They suffer no illusions about their inevitable fate, and wish to do as much good as they can with what time they have left.

The Mastigio and Masticophis Hounds are paradoxically the smallest, and yet the most important packs of the Yokai peoples. Just five in number, the Mastigio’s ranks are solely selected by the Blood Tithe lottery, and no Yokai may volunteer to join their ranks. The Mastgio are those who still hold the whips that bind the demonic Lord of Gore. For most Yokai, joining the ranks of the Mastigio is considered the highest honour one might achieve in life, despite it being a death sentence. The names of each and every Mastigio are engraved on a grand memorial, kept forever clean and maintained by the Hoblings of Chisaka Beri. The Masticophis Hounds are a sight no Yokai desires to see, and are marked as such by their serpent heraldry. Their purpose is simple: they hunt those few Yokai who try to refuse the call of the Blood Tithe. Though their work is grim, it is as important as it is distasteful, a necessary sin if the Demon Lord of Gore is to remain bound to Scythea. They take no joy in their work, and often wear masks to hide their emotions and faces from their kin. Rumours about this pack swirl about wildly, as most of the Yokai will never see one. No Yokai truly knows how the Hounds know who doesn’t attend the Blood Tithe. However, some Ajaunti whisper that there’s a bounty for letting the Hounds know if one knows of a Yokai who did not attend.

Culture

Yokai culture is a collection of their old Wolven ways, as well as scattered practices adopted during their travels and learned from other peoples and cultures. This includes food and clothing, but also occasionally sometimes involves adapting the governing systems and leadership styles of other races for a time, to see what might be a good fit for their pack.

While the Wolven of Aslak are accomplished merchants and traders, the Charmolipi had little interest in such things despite their frequent travel across Maud’Madir. As a result, the Charmolipi very rarely, if ever, went back to the Wolven capital and instead preferred to remain out on the hunt. They were strangers to their kin, and that distance bred a small measure of fear and distrust. Other Wolven often saw them as bloody and dangerous, caught up in the cleansing of undead and demons to an extent considered to be unhealthy. The Charmolipi were not alone on their travels though, and considered the Clopotel Clan of Ajaunti to be their close allies and friends. Occasionally the two groups would spend winters together near Teris, swapping tales of their travels and breaking bread together.

Their life was a hard one, with many long nights spent alone on the road, and in the darkness where the undead dwell. The stress of their duties weighed heavily upon them, and the Charmolipi knew well that their work scarred the mind just as it scarred the body. Thus, to preserve the light within their souls, as a pack they encouraged their kin to revel in light-hearted games and create any form of art that brought them joy. Even when most of their daily life was so steeped in blood, they managed to find beauty in the strangest of places. Perhaps the strongest and most enduring artistic tradition of the Charmolipi was the art of storytelling. These fanciful tales tended to be mostly comedic in nature, although no Charmolipi raconteur was above a little sentiment or high-flying adventure. Very few tales dealt with their battles with the undead, as the entire purpose of their storytelling was meant to distract themselves from the reality of their hunt.

Throughout the years the Charmolipi became known as master word spinners, with many accomplished bards amongst their ranks. A single Charmolipi was known to be able to entertain an entire room with a story of their own devising, using no more props than a simple fan or a cloth while seated atop a bar or table. Their mastery of hand movements and gestures added a hidden layer of depth to their tales, and this was a skill that the Charmolipi prided themselves on nearly as much as the stories themselves. If the locals knew the Charmolipi were coming to town, nearby taverns would raise their prices ever so slightly, as they knew the local drunks would inevitably be distracted by the wondrous entertainment.

The Charmolipi were particularly fond of stopping in Hobling villages as they travelled, for they found that this pleasant race was always fascinated by their tales and frequently believed their exaggerated stories. It also didn’t hurt that the Charmolipi believed Teris had the best food anywhere on Arthos, and many packs would go days or weeks out of their way to enjoy some fresh Hobling cuisine. As they ate together, the Hobling storytellers would tell their tales of wonder and adventure, of love and loss. The Hoblings called these performances Rakugo, meaning “fallen words” in their native tongue, for most of these stories were handed down through the generations. Many Charmolipi dreamed of spinning their own tale so grand that it would be worth passing down, and some day seeing others perform their own work as one of these Rakugo.

Despite the love the Charmolipi received from most places they visited, not all welcomed the arrival of these Wolven. More than a few Charmolipi took excessively to drink, and this could often spark a bit of a mischievous streak in them. Though most of these pranks were harmless, those on the receiving end often felt differently, and were incensed that the Charmopili never had to deal with the repercussions of their tricks when they often left quickly afterwards. However, some of these pranks served as elements in future stories, with the best eventually becoming their own fully fledged stories. The Charmolipi were particularly fond of a tale they called the “Honeymoon Trip.” In this tale, a mischievous Charmolipi kidnapped a newlywed couple, getting them incredibly drunk before throwing them on a boat and pushing them down a river without a paddle. Aside from their mischievous ways, the Charmopili could not hide that theirs was a violent and neverending crusade. Many outsiders saw these nomad warriors as killers first and foremost, a people who would bring naught but trouble and strife with them. Unable to see the beauty they brought with them, they would reject these Charmopili wanderers.

Today, most Yokai communities will vary greatly depending on where the pack lives, and which other peoples they spend their time with. Traditionally, the Yokai promote a peaceful co-existence with all races and peoples, with the obvious exception of demons and their agents. Their Wolven background also imparts upon them a strong distrust of the undead and fire, even if it no longer burns them terribly as it once did. Within their communities the Yokai value those who can create and those who can hone the talents of others, while looking down upon those that choose to waste their life without a cause or goal.

Almost every Yokai carries a whip that is either given to them when they kill their first demon, or is the whip given to them when they destroyed their first undead when they were still the Charmopili. Never used as weapons and custom-made for its Yokai owner, each whip serves as a reminder of Scythea’s sacrifice, and of the call to sacrifice that they must inevitably answer one day. Should they be called to the Mastigos, their whip is one of the five that will bind Scythea for five years.

The Yokai universally value the arts, with even the least artistically talented Yokai still having an appreciation for art. Nearly all Yokai have either a family relation to an artist, are an artist themselves, or at the very least tend to have a fondness for those who can perform and create. Artists, in their opinion, should both be paid and cherished and no artist should go hungry or unappreciated. They are quick to learn from the other races and enjoy trying new things as the languages, food, and clothing of others endlessly fascinate them.

Most Yokai are charismatic and charming, but still operate within the dynamic of a pack. If conflict arises, Yokai commonly try to assert themselves as the dominant one within the situation. Those that succeed are to be listened to, and are often then responsible for defusing said conflicts. They are certainly not above sparring or fighting, but killing each other is shamed in almost every Yokai community, for each Yokai death brings the Lord of Gore ever closer to release.

Traditionally, meals are taken communally in Yokai culture and are almost never taken alone. A meal is to be both shared and enjoyed, for even the simplest of dishes can be a work of art in and of itself. One culinary tradition that is much beloved are cakes baked with silver pieces and a gold piece within them. Whoever finds the gold piece is told that they will have a blessed month, but also that must clean up afterwards.

Marriage and Mating

Being so new to Arthos, most Yokai still follow Wolven tradition when it comes to marriage and mating. The sexes are not strictly defined and it is believed a Yokai should identify however they wish. It is also relatively common for Yokai to be pansexual.

Marriage is uncommon within Yokai, with many believing that marriage is not something that is needed to define a relationship, while others believe that marriage enforces the kind of stagnation that they seek to avoid with their wandering. Many Yokai relationships are polyamorous or open, for they believe that these bonds can lead to a stronger community.

Children are often raised by the pack, just as Wolven do, although Yokai also strive to teach their young of the dangers posed by demonic forces. Great care is also taken in explaining to their young that while they may be judged for their own demonic nature, they must still always strive to do the right thing. The ignorance and prejudice of others does not give them licence to surrender their conduct to the demon within.

The Yokai are no longer able to have children after their partial possession, and those Yokai that are left are all that will ever exist.. Because of this, the Yokai do not tolerate other Yokai being slain. Not only do their deaths increase the chances of themselves being chosen for the Blood Tithe, even the most ignorant Yokai knows that when combined with their sterility, every death means fewer and fewer Yokai are left to keep Scythea lashed.

Religion

It is very rare for Yokai to worship Dark Gods or to follow Dragons that promote the destruction of others due to their mostly peaceful nature. As slayers of demons, very few Yokai would ever have anything to do with demonic beings, and even those would never dream of doing so openly while amongst their people. Most Yokai tend to worship the Light, and they commonly find themselves praying to Cassandra and Roland. Having experienced great suffering themselves, the Yokai desire nothing more than to bring justice and hope to those that have suffered as they have. These beliefs are not uniform however, and there are some that prefer the arts or who still are a bit of a trickster at heart, and for those Yokai the gods Celeste and Ryiak are popular choices. Most Yokai tend to avoid Kael followers out of a fear that the more zealous followers of the Lightbringer would not stand for the demonic influence in their blood, the Archbishop’s proclamation be damned.

Of course, there are still those Yokai that choose the paths less travelled by their people. Some smaller packs of Yokai look to Baaagh in the hopes of finding a way to dominate the demon within themselves, while others have secretly made their own demonic deals while giving respect to Ixiad. Those that seek to be free from the demon’s influence once again often find support with Essylt and her followers, for the Unchained’s heart aches when she considers the plight of the Yokai.

When a Yokai passes into final death, their bodies are quickly bound and mummified in accordance with Yokai custom whenever possible. These wrappings are then painted with protective sigils designed to bind extraplanar spirits. The hope of the Yokai these rites will bind the demon within, keeping it locked away, even in death. After the sigils are prepared the body is dropped into the ocean or nearest deep body of water, their limbs bound with leaden weights. After this ceremony is completed and the demon hopefully locked away, the Yokai that were close to the deceased will have a portrait of them painted and then placed within a box where other portraits of the dead are kept.

Events

The Blood Tithe: Although the Demon Lord of Gore is bound within the warrior Scythea, her flesh is not simply a prison where one can lock the door and throw away the key. Keeping the demon under control requires a grim sacrifice, and yet this is a sacrifice that most Yokai pay glady. Every five years the Yokai gather, and through a simple lottery kept fair by secret mystical rites, five adult Yokai are chosen to be one of the lashes held upon Scythea. To be chosen as a Mastigio is considered to be the highest calling for a people already used to the idea of service and self-sacrifice, and few Yokai will purposely avoid gathering at the lottery. Those that serve as Mastigio cannot wander like their fellows, for they must stay close to Scythea, but will find that they will want for nothing. Their remaining five years of life will be made as comfortable as possible by. Other Yokai will visit them with food and tales of the outside world, and will even resolve their unfinished business elsewhere if possible. When they feel that it will not be long before they can no longer contain the demon within, a new lottery is called and replacements are found. It is only then that they are granted the release of death. Those that die in this manner are celebrated as great culture heroes of the Yokai, with their names being taught to children so that they might emulate their shining example. They are everything that the Yokai strive to be.

For those few whose courage fails them, and for those who have turned their back upon the sacred duty of all Yokai, there is only the incorruptible judgement of the Masticophis Hounds. Those few Yokai that abandon their people are tracked down and slain without mercy or pity. Grim and taciturn, these Yokai are warped by their dark duty and do not associate with the Yokai at large, and most will never see one. Even though most Yokai acknowledge the necessity of their work, the very existence of the pack is a brutal reminder that all Yokai have the potential to fail in their duty, and no Yokai enjoys being reminded of that fact. Should they encounter a Masticophis Hound, a common Yokai is to speed them on their way and provide all aid requested. Most do so simply to see them gone faster, rather than out of a desire to truly be of service to the pack.

Festival of Rosebery: Also known as Memory’s Journey and Teruko’s Festival, this festival has been celebrated every Spring since the tragedy of Chisaka Beri. Created by a Hobling family for their lost relative Teruko Ebata, it has since grown into a remembrance of all those who lost their lives that fateful day, Hobling and Charmolipi alike. This is not treated as an excuse to wallow in sadness and grief, but rather it is a celebration of the lives of those that died. In fact, it’s considered to be quite rude and unlucky to bring up any bad memories associated with those that are being remembered.

The Yokai quickly adopted this tradition, celebrating it as they travelled Maud’Madir. In their travels it spread to many settlements within their wake, who ended up adopting it as a fine way to remember their family and friends that have passed on. As a nomadic people already disinclined to bury their dead thanks to their Wolven heritage, the Yokai do not create proper graves. Instead, they build shrines for all their dead loved ones on this date. They dress these shrines in all of their passed loved one’s favourite things, such as their best clothing, jewellery, and prized gifts they gave others. These accoutrements are meant to inspire or call forth stories or a pleasant memory of the fallen. These shrines are usually quite colourful, and composed of things that will not die or rot for some time. In Hobling lands paper flowers and origami are quite popular, as are other pieces of art like pottery, paintings, and song lyrics committed to a surface.

Once the shrines are built and decorated, those close to the fallen gather together to tell their favourite stories about the dead and celebrate their legacy. Food, entertainment and games are all abundant to keep the festival light and fun. This celebration ends with the lighting of a paper lantern, with everyone who came to remember having written their name upon the side. They hope that this lantern will be found by their dead loved one’s spirit, so that they know they are still loved.

Vesmir has blessed the festival in their own way, approving of the acceptance of death and celebration of the life the fallen once lived. Lost spirits are also drawn to this festival and often mystics use this as an opportunity to put them to a peaceful rest.

Views on Other Races

Ajaunti: “Kindred spirits in many ways. We share a lot of common values, but they seem to value coin a bit too much.”

Am’Rath: “Savage, and difficult to speak to. Hard to understand why they don’t want more out of life.”

Avians: “Fascinating and full of knowledge. You can count yourself lucky to learn much about a topic from an Avian.”

Berphauntian: “Boring and stuck in the ways of the old. They allow corruption to fester and ruin them from within.”

Carnal Fae: “Fascinating but Fae in nature. Demons and Fae have too much in common – deals that screw you over is usually a common denominator.”

Dark Elves: “Traditional and stuck up.”

Draconian: “It must be tragic to be forced into being a certain way and then be unable to leave the path you were born on.”

Einher: “One step up from Am’Rath, for at least Einher know how to celebrate and throw a great party. Plus, they’re smart to fear the fog.”

Faceless: “Born demonic in nature, similar but different. The piece of demon they carry must never come back, either by protecting the Faceless, or by finding a way to destroy them all.”

Fauns: “Amazing, beautiful, creatures that are full of life and spiritual nature. They are young but I suppose so are we.”

Fire Elves: “They have endured much hardship where they come from. It’s admirable to keep living with their own ideals.”

Gargylen: “Poor things. If there was only a way to free themselves from their rocky prisons.”

Gnomes: “What they do is fascinating, if only they weren’t so adverse to us.”

Goblin: “Honestly they’re disgusting creatures, and are more likely to eat us as delicacies.”

High Elves: “Essentially Dark Elves, but they like the sun more.”

Hoblings: “Some of our favourite people. We love their villages and cities and they always welcome us with open arms.”

Ice Elves: “They can be more than the life they were born into, but most seem to just fall into their usual celebration of pain.

Kobold: “They blow up, I guess? It’s nice to see ones that don’t explode the minute you meet them.”

Minotaur: “A cursed race, just like us. We understand their hatred of the Fae, and believe it is valid.

Mountain Dwarves: “Good company, but are pretty obsessed with their shiny rocks.”

Ogre: “Scary, very strong. More often than not, they’re very dumb.”

Orc: “Like ogres, but smaller and green!”

Risen: “Another race that lives a terrible cursed life. But their attempt to live a better life is something we can agree on. Shame they need to devour souls to change forms.”

Savar’Aving: “Hard to get to know. They don’t really like us and see us only as corrupted Wolven.”

Sidhe: “You can’t trust their kind. Too similar to demons but with a stick shoved up their… you get the idea.”

Squamata: “Depends on the ones you meet. The Gremmel? Such a sweet race, where Boggrel and Shak’tar are hit or miss.”

Tiefanese: “They have better standards than Berphaunt, but most old cities have old, boring, and silly ways of thinking.”

Vulcan Dwarves: “Short and angry. You can barely get a word in before they’re yelling at you.”

Wild Elves: “Good-natured people with a pure way of life. They live off of nature and there’s so much you can learn from them.”

Wolven: “We hope they are safe from the curse we suffer from. We never got along that well, but we’d do anything to make sure they live.”

Wood Fae: “Such fun people. They are free and we love their company.”

Roleplaying Tips

A PC Yokai can easily come into game with other Yokai or with PCs of other races. Yokai love travelling and learning about different cultures, so it’s easy to be friends with many different races. It’s good to be curious and eager to go on adventures.

Yokai can come from the more common packs, or a smaller family that you can create yourself. Most Yokai are good hearted in nature, but one can come into the game succumbing to their mischievous demonic nature. Most Yokai hate demons with a passion, and psionics is a commonly practised sphere of magic.

For makeup, a white base is fine and one does not need fur texture if one isn’t comfortable doing so. Yokai were once fox Wolven, but the type of fox may affect ear shape, or the shading of their fur. Be creative!