Rakshasas of Phoor: The Betrayed Fiends, Enemies of the Serpentfolk
The rakshasas of Phoor are a race of fiendish conquerors, master deceivers, and would-be rulers of the world, but their fate was shaped by a betrayal at the highest levels of existence. Unlike the Serpentmen, who served the Great Old Ones, the rakshasas refused to bow before any gods, cosmic or infernal. This defiance made them enemies not just of the Serpentfolk, but of Hell itself.
Once, they walked the layers of the Nine Hells, serving no master but themselves, rising in power, infiltrating infernal courts, and twisting the schemes of the archdukes to their own ends. But their manipulations drew the ire of Asmodeus, and when Yog-Sothoth, the Elder God, came to strike a bargain with Hell (See Yog Sothoth and the Lords of Hell) it was the rakshasas who paid the price.
Through a dark pact forged in the lowest depths of the Hells, the rakshasas were cast out, exiled to Phoor, never to return. Their presence on this world was not a random occurrence—it was a sentence, a banishment enforced by the greatest powers in the multiverse.
The Betrayal of the Rakshasa: The Infernal Pact with Yog-Sothoth
In the deepest recesses of the lowest layer of Hell, beneath the gaze of Asmodeus himself, the Nine Lords of Hell convened to confront a cosmic intrusion. A presence beyond mortal comprehension seeped into the black stone halls of Asmodeus’s court, twisting reality with its arrival. The Elder God Yog-Sothoth had come to make an arrangement.
As he spoke, his presence alone drove lesser devils to madness. Visions of alien stars, shifting worlds, and forgotten horrors flooded the minds of those present. Only the Lords of Hell themselves remained steady—though some faltered before regaining their composure.
The Bargain: Hell’s Energy and the Price of Exile
Yog-Sothoth spoke of Phoor, a world he had chosen for transformation, a world where Hell’s power would be woven into the fabric of reality itself. The archdukes resented this siphoning of their essence, unwilling to see Hell’s might used without benefit to themselves.
It was Glasya, the Archduchess, who proposed a solution.
The rakshasas—fiendish but utterly disloyal to Hell’s order—were a constant disruption. They infiltrated infernal courts, whispered in the ears of devils and dukes alike, and undermined the careful structure that Asmodeus had spent eternity perfecting.
Glasya and Mephistopheles described them as parasites, useful only when directed elsewhere.
"If you must weave Hell’s essence into Phoor," she offered, "then let the rakshasas be its keepers."
With a single stroke, Hell would rid itself of the rakshasas, exiling them to Phoor, while securing its place in the cosmic balance.
Yog-Sothoth considered this for a time, then agreed.
"The rakshasas shall take their place on Phoor," he intoned, "freed from the Hells. I care little for the critters upon the surface, so long as they do not interfere with the ziggurats and the Serpentfolk’s work."
It was Asmodeus himself who sealed the bargain. With a knowing smile, he gave his decree.
"See to it that every rakshasa departs Hell with… enthusiasm. We have, after all, promised them their paradise anew."
And thus, in an instant, the rakshasas were stripped of their place in Hell, cast down to Phoor, never to return.
Enemies of the Serpentfolk, Enemies of the Great Old Ones
The rakshasas arrived on Phoor with fury in their hearts. They had been used, betrayed, exiled, and now placed on a world already shaped by forces they despised.
For the Serpentfolk ruled here, their empire vast and alien, their magic fueled by the Great Old Ones, the very beings whom Yog-Sothoth had empowered.
The rakshasas saw this as a final insult.
They would not be subjects. They would not be pawns in some cosmic game. If Yog-Sothoth had placed them in a world already ruled by the Serpentfolk, then the Serpentfolk would burn.
Thus began a war of deception and annihilation.
For centuries, the rakshasas waged a relentless campaign against the Serpentfolk. Their approach was not warfare in the conventional sense, but subterfuge, corruption, and gradual destruction.
Serpentfolk priests were turned against their gods. Their temples were infiltrated, their spells unraveled, their relics stolen. Their greatest ziggurats—monuments to Yog-Sothoth and the Great Old Ones—became tombs of betrayal, their most trusted acolytes whispering heresies planted in their minds by rakshasa deceivers.
And yet, it was not the rakshasas who struck the final blow.
The Fall of the Serpentfolk: The Wrath of the Elder Gods
In the twilight of their empire, the Serpentfolk suffered a cataclysm greater than war.
Their masters, the Great Old Ones, were punished.
The Elder Gods, vast and unknowable even to the Great Old Ones themselves, unleashed their fury upon their servants, The Great Old Ones.
The reasons are lost to time. Some whispered that the Great Old Ones sought to reshape the stars, to break the very fabric of the cosmos. Others claimed that they had simply grown too powerful, too reckless, and had drawn the gaze of something even greater.
Whatever the truth, the Great Old Ones were bound or cast into eternal slumber.
Their priests awoke to silence. Their once-mighty spells failed. Their rituals crumbled into meaninglessness.
The Serpentfolk, bereft of their gods, fell into ruin. Their armies, dependent on eldritch power, collapsed. Their sorcerers, once capable of bending reality itself, became nothing more than reptiles clinging to a dead faith.
The rakshasas watched with satisfaction.
The beings they had sworn to destroy were now weak, their power stolen by the very cosmic order that had exiled them.
For the first time in history, the rakshasas had won.
And so, as the Serpentfolk’s empire crumbled, the rakshasas turned their attention to their true goal.
The Rise and Fall of the Rakshasa Empire
The rakshasas believed that with the Serpentfolk gone, Phoor would finally be theirs.
They were wrong.
The elves, humans, and dragonborn, once prey, had grown into kingdoms and empires of their own. The Empires of Drakkar and Bamasuj, armed with divine magic, declared war upon the rakshasas, refusing to trade one fiendish master for another.
Ravana, a raja rakshasa, summoned legions of demons to crush the mortal armies. But the mortals, bolstered by celestial allies and the Immortals of Karsis, held their ground.
The rakshasas, for all their cunning, were driven into exile.
City of Brass: The Throne of the Unreincarnated Kings
The City of Brass is not merely a grand metropolis of flame and gold—it is a necropolis of knowledge, a realm of dead kings, and a monument to the rakshasa who have forsaken reincarnation.
It was not built for mortals, nor even for the living. It was shaped as a refuge and a prison, a seat of power for rakshasa rajas who refuse the cycle of rebirth and choose instead to linger in eternal cunning. Those who rule in the City of Brass are rakshasas who have cast aside the promise of reincarnation, giving up the endless rebirth that their kind relies upon.
To remain here is to become something more and something less. These kings do not die as others do—they are drained, emptied, devoured in ritual, their knowledge passed to their successors in the rite of Kapala.
The Ritual of Kapala: The Feast of Kings
In the final days of a rakshasa raja, when he can no longer rule but refuses to be reborn, he undergoes the Kapala Ritual. His skull is emptied, drained, and drunk from by his successor, ensuring that his wisdom, his cunning, and his secrets will never be lost.
This is no mere ceremony—it is the foundation of the City of Brass itself. The city’s golden streets and burning towers are not symbols of wealth, but of memory, of continuity, of a kingdom where no secret is ever truly buried.
The City of Brass is not Hell, nor the Material Plane, nor truly part of the Elemental Plane of Fire. It is a compromise, a place where the rakshasa dead may rule and linger, but where they remain just beyond the reach of true fiendish power.
The Pact with the Lords of Hell
The City of Brass exists because Hell allows it.
When the rakshasas were exiled to Phoor, they brought chaos to Hell’s careful order. They were too cunning, too ambitious, too unshackled by loyalty or hierarchy. The Dukes of Hell saw them as a destabilizing force, fiends who served only themselves, whispering in the courts of greater devils, undermining the chains that bound all others.
Yet, to destroy the rakshasas was not an option. They were too deeply tied to the fabric of the lower planes, too valuable as manipulators and plotters.
Thus, a compromise was reached.
The rakshasas who refused reincarnation would not be destroyed, but neither would they be allowed free reign over Hell. Instead, they would be given a place between, a city where they could preserve their knowledge and remain bound to the lower planes, yet distant enough to keep their machinations contained.
The City of Brass was born—a domain of the unreincarnated, a place of whispers and dead kings, a holding cell for rakshasa ambition.
A City of Secrets, A City of Shadows
Unlike Hell’s domains, which are designed to spread influence, or mortal kingdoms, which are meant to rule the living, the City of Brass serves no direct agenda in the mortal world.
It is a city of memory, of study, of refinement. It has little interest in conquest, but much interest in secrets.
It is said that within the city’s hidden halls, one may find knowledge long lost to time—secrets of fallen empires, forbidden spells, and the names of those who have cheated fate itself. For those who can reach the City of Brass and survive its trials, these secrets may be extracted—but at a cost.
For nothing in the City of Brass is ever truly forgotten.
The Masters of the City
The rakshasa kings of the City of Brass are not bound by mortal concerns. They do not fight wars, they do not seek thrones among the living. They have already ruled, already conquered, already lost.
Instead, they play a grander game—the game of knowledge, of manipulation across the eons.
Each king carries the memories of the rulers before him. They speak in circles, in riddles, in half-truths and layered meanings, for to share knowledge carelessly is to weaken one’s own power.
The greatest among them—the true Raja of Rajas, the one who has taken the skulls of a hundred rulers—sits in the Hall of Embers, where he alone may decide who is worthy to learn from the archives of the city.
A City Untouched by Time
The City of Brass does not change.
While the mortal world rises and falls, while empires crumble and new ones take their place, the City of Brass remains as it has always been—a vault of rakshasa knowledge, an echo of past greatness, a kingdom of rulers who refuse to be reborn.
And yet, though it has little influence on the mortal world, it is not without danger.
For those who come seeking knowledge, the city offers a single, unspoken warning:
"Ask carefully, for the price of knowing is far higher than the price of ignorance."