Chanda Rao

Chanda was once a man, mortal as any ever born. He lived his life as he saw fit and though he no longer remembers the man he was then, he knows he was not a good man mostly because he remembers how he died. He remembers the look of anguish and betrayal upon his lover's face as she plunged his own dagger into his chest. He does not remember what it was that he did to cause her such pain, to force her to such an awful action. He does not even remember her name.

Chanda's earliest memory, the one that he remembers most clearly, is standing in front of the Great Wheel. It isn't actually a wheel, of course, but to try to explain the strange and wondrous workings of the universe in terms that mortals could comprehend... Well, that language has yet to be invented. Suffice it to say that Chanda Rao looked upon the wheel and saw his fate laid out before him. If he allowed himself to be drawn onward by the unwavering justice of Karma, he would surely end up worse for wear. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, a different opportunity presented itself. A fallen angel of a strange god, beautiful and terrible as the dawn, offered him a deal he couldn't refuse.



So it was that Chanda became a crossroads demon, a merchant of souls and a granter of wishes. Most days Chanda is content with his lot in life, making deals and offering trades in the service of a dark and vengeful being. It suits his talents and his temperament and he cannot help but feel a perverse joy in seeing those so desperate for power or money or love lose everything they never knew they held dear to get it. Some days, however, the emptiness of his existence gnaws at him. On these days the face of the woman that killed him swims before his eyes and he wonders if perhaps he truly did deserve to ride the Great Wheel down into the darkest pits of Hell.

For the last hundred years or so Chanda has spent most of his time wheeling and dealing in some of the less reputable areas of London. While he still walks the roads for tradition's sake, the place he can be found most regularly is a small seedy pub called The Black Swan located a scant ten minutes walk from Heathrow Airport. In darkened alleys for miles around the legend of the King of the Crossroads can be heard whispered in hushed and desperate tones. Your heart's desire can be found in the back rooms of The Black Swan, but only if you are willing to pay the ultimate price.