Yothalothu's Questionnaire

Yothalothu lives in New York-specifically the Lower Manhattan area, in a surprisingly humble home for someone of his wealth and fame, one of the many brownstones lining the streets. He finds it to be an invigorating neighborhood, so full of life and color and the various beauties of mortalkind. Better here than somewhere wealthy-in his experience, wealthier areas were so... bland. Flavorless, colorless displays of petty wealth, void of anything more meaningful than the desires of the rich and powerful. His home is, contrary to what some might expect, filled to bursting with stuff-artworks, furniture, rugs, trinkets, knick knacks, fish tanks, a veritable museum to the works of man. A true maximalist's paradise.

Yothalothu is a fairly widely-known and respected author of books concerning the supernatural, the occult, and magic, and is one of the bestselling authors among the genre. He doesn't just limit himself to such grimoires of knowledge, however-he's also a rather skilled fantasy author, though in truth he tends to simply set his stories in worlds he has previously visited. Saves time off worldbuilding, if nothing else. Beyond authorship, he earns a tidy sum as a member of the House of the Eighth Circle bringing in magical anomalies and eliminating supernatural threats-who'da thunk that eliminating paranormal threats that most would stand little chance against pays well, eh?

Yothalothu's Ambition has existed alongside him since he understood the concept of evil and good. A simple Ambition, but ambitious in the grand scheme of things-he simply seeks to protect all of mortalkind from the forces that would predate upon them. Largely, this consists of more paranormal threats-outer gods that feast upon mortalkind, demons and devils that torment them, angels that seek to force mortals into their own twisted vision of a righteous path, world-devouring planetary gods, things of that nature. He does not, however, limit himself to such grand threats-mortalkind is too often most threatened by themselves, and as such he also goes after more mundane mortal evils-greedy corporations, corrupt politicians, dictators filled with hate and lust for power, and more common robbers, thieves, murderers, and men of evil.

Throughout Yothalothu's indescribably long life, he's had many events that one might call defining-friendships forged, titans slain, tyrants brought low, losses endured. But to him, the most defining event throughout his life was simply that of his birth-born from the remains of a dead yet dreaming god's consciousness, willed into being by its unthinking whims, Yothalothu experienced everything at once as reality itself rushed to flow within him. A beautiful, terrifying cacophony of existence-stars and nebulae, existence and oblivion, time and space, all flowing through him and into him. A lesser being, even a god, would have been instantly destroyed. But an outer god is no mere ordinary divinity. While Yothalthu doesn't recall most of what he saw, he cherishes the scraps of beauty he can remember from his inception.

Kamaria Shabani-A younger mage whose parents hail from Africa, Kamaria is a relatively inexperienced novice in the arcane arts, though she shows incredible promise and potential. Yothalothu has elected to take her on as his apprentice, teaching her whatever eldritch truths he can impart to her that won't drive her to madness. She's a headstrong 22 year old, and fiercely independent, loathing having to rely on anyone for anything. She's also a college sophomore, and is attending New York University as a mathematics major, rather talented in her field. Her affinity for mathematics lends itself well to learning magic, and she's quickly risen the ranks among the Eighth Circle's apprentices. In but a few more years, she'll be a fully fledged magus in her own right. She's quite fond of fiction, and enjoys helping Yothalothu with his own endeavors in writing, proofreading his works and giving feedback where needed.

The Tlahtoāni-Not much is known of this mysterious figure, the archmage who leads the House of the Eighth Circle. He appears to be an exceptionally short, wizened, ancient old South American man, clad in the golden garb of ancient Aztec rulers, covered in tattoos and body paint, and never seen without his tall stave adorned with obsidian arrowheads and bones, a feathered serpent winding its way up the stave. In addition, he wears a peculiar breastplate comprised of a great obsidian mirror, pitch-dark and only reflective of humanoids. It's speculated that the Tlahtoāni is an ancient Aztec sorcerer, granted immortality by some arcane rite or perhaps by his gods; he's quite tightlipped about it, however. The Tlahtoāni seems to have taken a keen interest in Yothalothu, more so than most, and often invites the outer god to talks of the arcane and the occult. In spite of appearances, he's a rather mischievous and jolly sort, and enjoys playing harmless pranks and jokes on those under his command.

Samantha Weller-The barista at the coffee shop Yothalothu is fond of frequenting. He's made good friends with xem, and the two often chat a while when he stops by for breakfast and lunch. Xey're a young person around the same age as Kamaria and a college student as well as an aspiring author, hoping one day to publish xer own series of books. Xe often looks up to Yothalothu for advice, who is more than happy to dispense it to xer.

Yothalothu did not experience childhood-at least, not in the way we as mortals would comprehend it.

He was not born from a mother, but formed by the dead yet dreaming remains of another outer god, its vegetative consciousness idly forging a progeny from its own remains. Some instinctive urge to continue its own legacy, most likely. For several trillion years, Yothalothu's infancy was spent simply roaming the face of reality, shaping it as he pleased into beautiful constructs-galaxies that shone with radiant light, nebulae of a thousand different colors, constellations spanning the heavens, stars of impossible hues and sizes. Over time, however, his attention was drawn to the tiny ants on some of his playthings-so insignificant, but so... loud. Noisy. He couldn't ignore them if he wanted to-and so he sent himself to them to observe.

In time, his fascination with the mortals turned into a strange sort of love-how fleeting they were, and yet how beautiful, so filled with a drive to create and simply be in a universe so indifferent to them. And in time, this love grew protective, as he bore witness to the idle cruelty of his own kind-who were they, to play with these living, breathing beings as if they were just as inanimate as the stars they shaped? Who gave them the right to torture mortals, those beautiful yet fleeting lives who already had to endure the knowledge of existing in an uncaring universe?

And so did Yoth's childhood turn from idle play and construction of grand cosmic architecture to protecting the mortals he loved so much, aiding lesser gods and mortals in protecting them from the wiles of his own kind-and from other forces.

Yothalothu loved romantically, once.

He was the most beautiful mortal the outer god had ever seen-an elf on a distant fantasy world, hair gold as the sun's rays, laugh as melodic as birdsong, face as beautiful as a god's, and so very kind and loving even of the downtrodden and the unloved. Yoth was smitten in an instant, and against his better judgement courted and won over his lover's heart.

And for a time, they were happy-even knowing his lover was a nigh-incomprehensible being, the elf loved him all the same, cherished him, held him dear. And Yoth's love spanned universes, spanned time and space. In his lover's name did he create the most vast and beautiful constellations and nebulae, works of cosmic art that brought mortal astrologers to tears. His own lover's gifts were perhaps somewhat more humble, but Yoth treasures them as if they were fundamental building blocks of reality-a harp sung into being from the finest wood, a cup set made from the best stone in the lands, a crystal shining with magical energy.

But alas, like all things, it was not to last. Even the nigh-immortal elves cannot stand against the grind of time forever, and Yoth watched helplessly as the one man he'd ever loved romantically aged, and eventually died. Of course, this was not the end for them-his spirit, freed of the shackles of mortal flesh, could now join his lover in the cosmic empyrean, though he could never truly behold Yoth's truest of forms. But even a spirit must die again, and over the aeons did his lover fade and fade away, until nothing but a single mote was left, the rest of his being recycled in cosmic samsara.

The last thing he ever told Yothalothu was simply, "I will always love you."

The heartbreak Yothalothu suffered was catastrophic to him, but he couldn't wallow in it. Shouldn't wallow in it. There was work to be done, mortals to protect, threats to drive off. No time to let a broken heart debilitate him.

To this day, he has never loved another quite like he loved his elf, and he never will again.

There are very, very few things that can frighten an outer god. After all, when you've beheld terrors that would obliterate mortal souls from fear alone, what power does a mere thug with a knife hold, or a demon, or even an apocalypse?

No, Yoth does not fear the physical. He does not fear the man with a knife, the demon threatening to devour his soul, the impending nuclear Armageddon set to destroy everything.

He fears failure.

He fears failing the mortals he's sworn to protect, fears letting them come to harm from his own incompetence or inaction, fears being useless. Fears failing his only true purpose. For he has already forsaken his place among his own kind for his actions-too many view him as an eccentric at best and an enemy at worst, so concerned is he with what most of his kindred would view as ants to be ignored or toyed with. Only the mighty Nodens views him favorably, and even then he views mortal life as ultimately expendable. Anything to stop dread Nyarlathotep from tipping the scales of cosmic balance too far to chaos. Anything to stop him, or Groth, or Hastur, or Y'golonac, or any of the innumerable outer gods that seek only to impose their will over reality, devour everything, spread chaos.

Only Yothalothu stands to protect the mortals. Only Yothalothu is there to save them. And if he cannot even do so much as that?

What use is he to anyone?

At the present, Yoth's most prized possession is his sword-the Shard of Reality, a magical blade forged not from steel, not from matter, but from the very fabric of the cosmos itself, capable of slicing through most mortal materials with ease. Not only is it a singularly powerful sword, it's one of the few connections he presently has to his truest of forms, to the vast and unknowable consciousness that is the true Yothalothu. He treasures what few connections he can make with his more eldritch nature-he misses the music of the spheres something terrible, and making vast cosmic works of art spanning lightyears. And certainly mortal art is no less valuable, but even the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful song a mortal can devise cannot come to a sliver of the cosmic awe that is the song reality itself sings.

...that and the Shard makes for quite a handy vegetable cutter in the kitchen.

At the present, the biggest problem in Yoth's life is his newfound muteness, brought on by taking a shotgun to the face. It's not hugely debilitating for him, but it's certainly not easy navigating life without a tongue these days. Thankfully for him, he can still taste things thanks to small magics, but he cannot order in drive-throughs, cannot speak at conferences, cannot catch someone's attention, cannot even express joy or anger or sadness. Just sit in utter silence. Fuming at his helplessness, raging at the man that rendered him mute, yearning to find whatever circle of Hell he'd gone to and torture the little fucker himself, and try to find any method of communication. He can't turn to the House of the Eighth Circle-not yet, not so soon after they'd helped him with his scrying. He can only scour the globe for something, ANYTHING that might give him his voice back.

To start his days off, Yothalothu does what most any mortal would-he makes his bed, he showers and brushes his teeth, he combs his hair and takes general care of his skin, and he makes himself something to eat. Nothing particularly large-he prefers spending his breakfasts at the cafe he frequents, just enough to silence his gut. While he awaits the cafe's opening, he sits with his night-gaunt minions to watch television, browses the Internet, plays whatever computer game has caught his fancy this month, and tends to his many fishtanks. When his favorite cafe is finally open, he dresses himself for the day, makes his way down, orders a chai latte and whatever's caught his fancy to eat today, and sits to write a while, chatting with Samantha if she's around and simply enjoying the morning. Rather simple and mundane, for a being as vast and grandiose as he is, but even he couldn't deny that this was one of the nicer pleasures in all of his varied lives.