Silquar- The Star Spawn Mangler

Role in Its Society:

Silquar is a knife in the dark for things that don’t really have hands. Among star cults and Far Realm–touched sects, Silquar is an executioner, saboteur, and cleaner of “loose ends.” When a priest falters, a witness babbles too much, or a rival cult must be silenced, Silquar is the thing that arrives between heartbeats.

To mortal servants, Silquar is an almost mythic terror—more rumor than person. Cultists leave offerings of sharp, mirrorless blades and tattered cloaks in abandoned side tunnels, hoping to direct his attention toward their enemies instead of themselves.

In the broader Underdark, Silquar is the unseen author of massacres—charred camps where no alarm was raised, a watch post where every guard died in their sleep, a caravan that vanished without a sound. For those who know the signs, the pattern is clear: twisted scratches like meteors scoured across stone, bodies arranged in impossible, almost artistic ways.

Appearance Description:

Silquar is a gaunt, hunched thing shrouded in tatters of shadow-soaked cloth. Beneath the hanging rags, his body is all wrong angles—too narrow shoulders, chest caved as if someone pressed in from both sides, and six wiry arms that end in long, clawed fingers. Those arms move with unnerving independence, flexing and tensing like separate animals barely leashed together.

His skin (where it shows) is a bruised indigo-grey, slick and almost reflective, as if light slides off him at odd angles. His head is smooth and almost mask-like, with a suggestion of features rather than a true face: a slight indentation where a nose should be, a faint crease that might be a mouth, and two shallow, burning pinpricks where eyes might lurk. When he tilts his head, it feels like a mannequin studying you from behind glass.

In motion, Silquar scuttles along walls and ceilings as easily as floors, limbs unfolding and refolding like a collapsing ladder. When still, he hangs like a forgotten cloak—until the cloak suddenly grows claws.

Backstory:

Silquar’s earliest memory is falling sideways. Not down, but out—torn from a place of endless, silent geometries when something on your world went very, very wrong: a failed summoning, a star cult’s ritual at the wrong hour, a comet that wasn’t just ice and stone.

He arrived in a forgotten Underdark shrine dedicated to a sky-god long abandoned. The priests were gone, the idols broken. Only a single desperate cultist remained, trying to repurpose an old holy site to call something new. They succeeded far beyond their comprehension—and did not live long enough to enjoy it.

Silquar does not think of himself as “created.” He thinks of himself as pointed—like a knife pushed through paper. The will behind him belongs to something vast and distant, a mind that cares as much for individual lives as a mathematician cares for dust on the chalk. Silquar feels that will as a constant pressure behind his thoughts, a sense of “go here” or “end that” more than words.

Over time, mortal cults learned to interpret his appearances. He emerges in places where the veil is thin—where Hisk and others like him have already frayed reality a little—and finishes whatever the cosmic hand began. A heretical high priest suddenly doubts? Silquar visits. A warlord closes a portal the star wants open? Silquar visits. A band of adventurers meddles too close to a sleeping horror? The pressure behind Silquar’s thoughts sharpens like a command.

He collects not objects, but moments: the instant a guard decides to betray his captain, the heartbeat before a wizard miscasts a spell, the precise breath when someone realizes they are lost. Each of those moments is a little offering to whatever watches him from beyond.