Demon Raum

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The Wandering Jew, by Gustave Doré. The Wandering Jew, by Gustave Doré.

Orginally from The Book of Fiends

Designed By Aaron Loeb, Erik Mona, Chris Pramas, and Robert J. Schwalb

Harbinger of the Apocalypse
Dizalakine, the Gate of Entropy
Areas of Concern: Finality, extinction, the future
Domains: Catastrophe, Destiny, Evil, Prophecy
Favored Weapon: Quarterstaff

Raum was born a full-fledged demon prince in the future, a breath before the multiversal apocalypse eagerly awaited by followers of Abaddon and Astaroth. Since then, he’s aged in reverse—as time passes, Raum becomes more knowledgeable about the future that only he has experienced. Always honored as a herald of the coming doom and a patron of hopelessness, Raum’s unique perspective on things to come has of late made him a paragon of prophecy. Soothsayers, prognosticators, and fortune tellers turn to Raum for information about the future—which he’s willing to share, for a price.

The Harbinger of the Apocalypse obscures himself in voluminous gray robes, which hide a deteriorating form that grows more decrepit with each passing year. Raum doesn’t understand why he’s aging, but he expects to fade from existence entirely within the decade, and the suspicion that he has not yet fulfilled the “purpose” of his creation now drives virtually all of his decisions and actions. After centuries of contemplation, he’s come to the conclusion that he was created by the Lords of Good to prevent the apocalypse as a sort of “sleeper” agent within the Abyss. His preferred means of doing so, however, reveals his chaotic evil nature.

Raum hopes to use his knowledge of future catastrophes to trigger an apocalypse in the present—a suicidal bid to prevent himself from ever having existed in the first place. The multiverse would be destroyed somewhat earlier, but at least Raum would have prevented the later annihilation of all that is. Further, by erasing himself from creation he could be absolved of the sin of wiping out the multiverse. Already heavy with the guilt of being involved in any apocalypse at all, Raum views the absolution of nothingness as the only reward worth fighting for anymore.

He long ago stopped active defense of Dizalakine, his personal layer of the Abyss. No demonic armies guard its gate and borders, and the prince exerts none of his energies fortifying the layer’s natural defenses. The place would be completely overrun by invaders if not for the fact that Dizalakine offers nothing to its occupier—no cities, no resources of great (or even modest) value, and no indigenous life worth stealing or enslaving. Forlorn, windswept, and ignored, the flat plains of the so-called Gate of Entropy stand awaiting a new lord, passed over time and again by would-be usurpers simply because the current tenant allowed things to get so bad that the dregs are hardly worth bothering with. Raum himself occasionally strolls the darkened plains, crying softly to himself while engaging in sad conversations with remembered friends who have yet to be born.

Among the mad are some who have not so much lost their minds as touched upon a piece of information or vision of truth that forever changes the way they view the world. Often the madness manifests as strange voices, hallucinations, or paranoia. Sometimes it instead produces visions: hazy, half-understood images of the future. Those lunatics whose predictions bear fruit are known as Children of Raum, in homage to the demon prince’s double patronage of the future and hopeless causes. The Children (those sane enough to function in society, at any rate) dominate Raum’s cult, which also teems with seers and fortune tellers, including a fair number of charlatans. Few openly admire the Harbinger’s apocalyptic goals (naïvely viewing these as a “minor” aspect of his patronage), but all adore chaos and anarchy. They frequently spur on natural and political catastrophes, directly in service of Raum or because it’s simply their nature to do so.


A thaumaturge in service to Raum must perform a daily card reading for one other sentient creature. The process takes at least an hour, at the end of which the thaumaturge chooses one random card from a 22-card subset to represent the “fate” card for the subject of the reading. (Use the Major Arcana of a modern Tarot deck to simulate decks specific to your character.) The card is seen as ominous, though the process does not in fact appear to be magical. After showing the card to the subject, the thaumaturge smears it in black ash and tears it in two. If the Death card is drawn, the thaumaturge must earnestly attempt to kill the subject within 24 hours or lose all spellcasting ability for 1d4 days. (Few Raumian thaumaturges advertise this aspect of their service.) When all 22 cards in the subset have been torn, the thaumaturge must replace them at a cost of 2 gp per deck. At the end of the reading, the thaumatuge’s daily spell allotment is replenished.


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