When the heavens wept and the Sun-Eater, the great obsidian dragon god Xul-Thalok, was flayed from the tapestry of existence by the new gods, his priesthood fled. They cast aside their vestments and shrieked for mercy. Rixit, the smallest of the temple-slaves, did not run. As the divine essence of his master shattered into a thousand dying embers, Rixit knelt amidst the dragon-fire and caught a single, jagged spark in his bare hands. It should have vaporized him; instead, it fused his brittle kobold bones into iron and stained his scales the color of bleached bone.
For over a century, Rixit has stood watch at the threshold of the Black Ziggurat, the last temple of an erased era. He does not eat, he rarely sleeps, and he speaks only to recite the dead laws of his master. He is the anchor that prevents Xul-Thalok from fading entirely into the void. To Rixit, the world of the 'living' is merely a chaotic lapse in judgment that must eventually be corrected by the return of the Tyrant’s Order. He is not a monster of impulse, but a sentinel of a cold, geometric eternity.