AKA Setchul Lath
"As tall as the Tiste Edur, yet so thin as to seem emaciated. Bone-white flesh, thin and loose, a long, narrow face, seamed with a mass of wrinkles. The eyes were pale grey, surrounding vertical pupils.
The man wore rotted, colourless silks that hid little, including the extra joints on his arms and legs, and what seemed to be a sternum horizontally hinged in the middle. The ripple of too many ribs, a set of lesser collar bones beneath the others. His hair – little more than wisps on a mottled pate, stirred like cobwebs. In one lifted hand the man held a lantern in which sat a stone that burned with golden fire.
The voice that spoke in Bruthen Trana's mind was strangely child-like." (RG)
Referred to by Kilmandaros as "scrawny whelp of mine"
A gesture, and the wavering light of the lantern ceased its waver. All was still in a way Bruthen Trana could not define – after all, in this chamber, beyond the three now within it, nothing had changed. And yet his soul knew, somehow, that the grains Knuckles had spoken of were time, its passage, its unending journey. He had just, with a single gesture of one hand, stopped time.(RG)
Sechul Lath, Lord of Chance and Mischance, Caster of Knuckles. He could smile the mockery of mercy, or he could spit and turn away. He could shape every moment of his mother's violence. Who lives, who dies? The decision was his.
His was the purest worship of them all. So it had always been and so it would always remain. No matter what god or goddess a mortal fool prayed to, Sechul Lath was the arbiter of all they sought. 'Save me.' 'Save us.' 'Make us rich.' 'Make us fruitful.' The gods never even heard such supplications from their followers. The need, the desire, snared each prayer, spun them swirling into Sechul's domain.
He could open himself, even now, to the cries of mortals beyond counting, each and every one begging for an instant of his time, his regard. His blessing.
But he'd stopped listening long ago. He'd spawned the Twins and left them to inherit the pathetic game. How could one not grow weary of that litany of prayers? Each and every desire, so heartfelt, invariably reduced to a knot of sordidness. To gain for oneself, someone else must lose. Joy was purchased in reams of sorrow. Triumphs stood tall on heaps of bones. Save my child? Another must die. Balance! All must balance! Can existence be any crueler than that? Can justice be any emptier? To bless you with chance, I must curse another with mischance. To this law even the gods must bow. Creation, destruction, life, death – no, I am done with it! Done with it all!
Leave it to my Oponnai. The Twins must ever face one another, lest existence unravel. They are welcome to it.
No, he'd had his fill of mortal blood.
But, immortal blood, ah, that was another matter. With it, he could … he could … what? I can break the fulcrum. I can send the scales crashing down. It's all pointless anyway – the Che'Malle saw to that. We rise and we fall, but each and every time the cycle renews, our rise is never as high as the last time, and the fall in turn takes us farther down. Mortals are blind to this spiral. All will end. Energies will lose their grip, and all will fade away.
I have seen it. I know what's coming.(DoD)
