Harvester Devil

"Where we see death and decay, it sees raw material. That, perhaps, is the deepest horror. Not that it will kill you, but that it will make you beautiful in its own terrible way."

— Hastrel Duun, noted diabologist

 

Hellish Crafts

  They do not simply haunt the realms of the Hells; they stalk the fragile boundary between mortal fear and infernal purpose. Standing taller than any mortal knight, their frames are a grim mosaic of skeletal remains, an ever-shifting latticework of bones woven together by strips of sinew that seem to pulse with unnatural life. Their faces are featureless save for two hollow sockets that blaze with cold, baleful light, and their hands end in long, clawed fingers sharp enough to carve marrow from bone with surgical precision.   Unlike the brutish devils who crave carnage or the clever deceivers who revel in mortal folly, Harvesters are artisans of destruction. They do not seek to spill blood wantonly; they have a singular focus: the procurement of mortal remains. Whether it be the ribcage of a dishonoured knight or the shattered femur of a desperate commoner, no piece is without value. These devils are master craftsmen, and their forges lie hidden in forgotten hellscapes, where bone is shaped into weapons, tools, and grotesque ornaments for infernal lords.   When a Harvester enters the material plane, it is often heralded by whispers of unearthed graves and villages abandoned overnight. Its arrival is not marked by fiery explosions or deafening roars but by the quiet scrape of its clawed feet and the rustling of bone against bone. It moves with unnerving grace, its skeletal armour clattering in a dissonant rhythm.  

Remains To Be Seen

  They are not mere scavengers; they are driven by purpose. When a Harvester stalks a battlefield, it does so not with haste but with chilling deliberation, moving as if guided by a symphony of unseen strings. Its bony fingers hum with latent energy, pulling the remains of the fallen toward it in eerie, rattling streams. Once collected, the Harvester begins its craft, often in plain view of the living, who are left paralyzed by the morbid display.   Despite their laborious nature, Harvesters are far from defenseless. They wield weapons forged from their grisly troves, each one a bespoke creation tailored to the battle at hand. A curved blade fashioned from a rib cuts through flesh with alarming ease; a whip of vertebrae and sinew strikes with the force of a storm. Even if they should lose their weapon in battle, they are adept at summoning bone constructs to protect themselves or overwhelm foes.   Rumours persist that Harvesters covet not only mortal bones but also the essence of what those bones once housed—the echo of life itself. What they do with these stolen sparks is a question too dark to contemplate for long.