The entity known as Orthos is one of Baphomets uncounted spawn, second in stature, though not in age, he dwells in the deep forest upon a throne of roots as twisted as his own depraved nature.
More so than Baphomet’s other children, Orthos thrives upon adulation. Demanding praise from both his lesser siblings and the mortals in his thrall, he has stood as master of ceremonies and honoured patron of countless bachannals and wyrd festivals in the unnumbered years since his birth.
Despite his might, Orthos is filled with deep shame, for he has proved himself an ignoble sire. The spawn of his loins are malformed things, twisted, capricious and weak in stature. These impish byblows totter around their sire, mewling and pathetic, an ever-present proof that he shall never hold place as chief amongst the blessed mother’s consorts.
To face Orthos in combat is to face not only unbridled strength, but an age of concentrated bitterness. Eager to take out his frustrations upon worthy foes, Orthos wields his great axe with terrifying abandon, cleaving wildly through both his foes and the swarms of his twisted young that caper underhoof.
