Thal'zoth (the Firstborn of Madga)

Long before the age of the ten million serpent-women, before their gluttonous feasts and their devotion to their mother, there was one, the firstborn, the eldest, the one who never belonged. His name was Thal’zoth, the Primordial Serpent-Man, a being unlike any of his countless sisters. He was not merely the son of Madga, the Great Mother of Serpents, but also the spawn of something far more eldritch, more incomprehensible, the Ancient Horror, Yog-Sothoth.

A Birth Unlike Any Other

Thal’zoth was not born from a mere egg like his sisters. His conception was an anomaly of cosmic horror, an unnatural event in which the unknowable essence of Yog-Sothoth melded with Madga’s primordial being. He was not simply a serpent-woman, nor a mere beast of the land, he was something in between, something beyond comprehension. When he emerged, his body was already touched by the void, his skin a cracked and ancient stone-gray, his eyes burning like twin stars lost in the abyss.

Unlike his sisters, who revered and adored Madga with unshakable love, Thal’zoth was raised differently. His mother saw in him not just a child, but a warrior, a guardian, a relic of the old ways. He was forged not in comfort, not in feasts, but in the harshest of trials. While his sisters indulged in their endless hunger, Thal’zoth fasted. While they giggled and played, he trained and meditated.

The Eternal Outcast

Time passed, and his sisters multiplied into millions, yet Thal’zoth never changed. He saw their endless binge-eating, their laughter, their obsession with growing their enormous bellies, and he felt nothing. They were weak, soft, childish. Not warriors, not gods, just beasts of appetite.

He withdrew from them, choosing solitude over family, wandering the vast, empty deserts of their ancient world, always alone. His only companion was his living serpent, the being that grew from his very body, an extension of his cursed existence. Unlike his sisters, who gorged themselves on dinosaurs and fruits that bloated their bodies into grotesque forms, Thal’zoth had no such cravings. Hunger was weakness. He would not succumb.

The Fear and Respect of His Sisters

Even among his countless sisters, the legend of Thal’zoth was whispered in fear. Few dared approach him, for he was not like them, he did not share their joys, their desires, their boundless affection for their mother. Some sisters, foolish and naive, had tried to speak to him, to pull him into their endless games of gorging and belly-expanding contests, only to be met with his cold, unwavering glare, a reminder that he did not belong.

Those who saw him felt the weight of his presence, as if the very air around him was unnatural, thick with an ancient dread. His voice was deep, his words few, yet each syllable carried the authority of ages past.

“I am not like you,” he had once told a particularly foolish sister who tried to drag him into a feast. “You are flesh and hunger. I am the void and eternity.”

His Only Purpose

Despite his rejection of his family, Thal’zoth is not without purpose. While his sisters indulge in their gluttony, he remains watchful, standing as a relic of an older time, a guardian of knowledge long forgotten. He does not seek conquest, nor does he wish to rule, but should any force threaten the world of the Serpent-Women, he alone possesses the power to stand against it.

He has no love for his sisters.
But should they fall, he will be the last to remain.