I promised you to talk about it, back when I made my post about caloric magic: unfortunately I lost the article I wanted to reblog as a reference (it is somewhere drowned in my likes). I will still do the post, but quite late and succinct as a result: I want to speak about how bizarre the use of "True Names" is today.
Because if you go onto the Internet, if you check "True Names magic", "Do not share your True Name", "True Names have power", all you get is... Fairies. Fairies, faeries, fae, fair folk, elves, whatever. The Internet today not only proclaims but runs with the idea that a core part of fairy lore, of fairy fiction, of fairy tradition, relies on the existence of a "True Name" that is a powerful thing the fairies protect at all costs, because whoever has them can enslave them. It is everywhere - Mercy Thompson, Modern Faerie Tale, Dresden Files, Shadowhunters, World of Darkness, Spinning Silver...
And... this is utterly, entirely, completely false. Entertaining, charming, a whole aesthetic sure, a freshly-made tradition, but artificial, out of nowhere and heavily misleading to the point of nearing misinformation.
Mind you, it does not come from "nowhere" per se. There is ONE recurring fairy-story that did give credit to the idea that "True Names" were connected with the Fair Folk/Little Folk: the brothers Grimm' Rumplestiltskin, where to defeat the titular antagonist the protagonist must guess his name... However this is A) an exception to the rule as you will find no other popular stories showing fairies relying on their name ; and B) completely missing the point. When you check the many variations, from country to country and era to era, of the "Rumplestiltskin" fairytale-type (type number 500 per the International Classification), you notice that what all the names to guess have in common is weirdness, bizareness, ridiculousness. The "guessing of the name" trial relies not on on the "importance" of the true name, but on the fact the name is just so convoluted and hard to pronounce nobody could guess it.
Fairies in folklore and legend do NOT rely on "True Names" as we understand it today... So where does this whole thing came from?
[EDIT: Mind you, there are, here and there, some little stories about supernatural beings able to be vanquished when their name is spoken aloud, I am not saying it does not exist... But I am saying it is quite minor and not a core nor prominent part of "fairy lore"]
Well, the answer is fantasy. In terms of "magic of True Names", it was the fantasy genre that popularized it. While foundational works like Tolkien's books rely heavily on the importance and multiplicity of names, there's no "True Name" power as we understand it ; similarly its mythical sources do not rely on this either. Yes the Kalevala relies on magic being performed by knowing the "true essence and origin" of the things, but it has nothing to do with "names" at all - to have power over something, you need to be able (for example) to sing how it came to be and how it was conceived. It is knowing the "true tale" of something that is important, not a "true name". [EDIT: Okay, the dwarves of Tolkien do have "true names" they keep secret to their graves and yes names do have significance and power in Tolkien's Legendarium, but it doesn't fit what we understand as "True Names" today]
True Names started in fantasy with... Le Guin's Earthsea. She was the one who first brought the concept that magic uses and relies on True Name ; she was the one who built a world where people kept secret their True Names and went by nicknames or titles ; she was the one who wrote about how you could bind someone using their True Name. And it was from "Earthsea" onward that this concept was used and reused in fantasy - for example in Glenn Cook's "The Black Company" where speaking a sorcerer's True Name means the end of their magic - and the idea that the "True Name" rule only works for magic-users is apparently also found in Niven's "The Magic Goes Away"?
In fact, in fantasy the "Law of Names" was mainly focused as being a purely magical thing. Either it was how wizards and witches worked their magic (like in "The Forgotten Beasts of Held", "Dragonsbane", "Young Wizards" or the "Inheritance Cycle"), either it is a threat to the sorcerer itself, see above. This is very likely because of how Earthsea focuses on the wizards and mages. Similarly sometimes the "True Name" was expanded to dragons, and I suspect it is because the most iconic use of a True Name in Earthsea was against a dragon... And from sorcerers and dragons, the trope slowly slipped into "Fairies". Maybe it is because of famous contemporary works that blurred the line? Such as Ghibli's "Spirited Away" where the witch stealing peoples' name is also a fairy-like inhabitant of an "Otherworld" ; or "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell" where the powerful wizard turned fairy-power The Raven King needs his true name to be summoned.
Yet the Earthsea world has everybody keep their true name secret, not just magic-wielders, ordinary folks too. Because, and we are getting into the interesting part... Because it is meant to be a cosmic and social thing for everybody, not just one specific type of people. And this is explained when you look at Earthsea's inspirations. While Earthsea became a staple of "traditional fantasy" in itself (becoming inspiration for "traditional" works like "Name of the Wind" or parody works like Discworld), it was created to be an un-traditional fantasy. Among its attempts at reinventing the genre, or subverting it, was the desire to create an un-European setting. It is still medieval European in essence (the dragons, wizards and a lot of the society is just very "standard fantasy"), but it is wrapped in a lot of non-European elements. And the whole Rule of Names/Law of Names/True Name system Le Guin created for her book was meant to be THE most un-European thing ever.
Because, before it appeared in fantasy, where did the "True Name Law" appear? Putting aside the monotheistic religions talks, of course. [This trope is found in Jewish beliefs, traditions and occultism, especially when the Kabbalah is involved - there is this famous emphasis on God's True Name and how it should be an unspoken secret. This logic was reused for the story of C. Clarke, "The Nine Billion Names of God", not to be confused with "Kill Six Billion Demons". In Christianity God's name is also powerful but hardly a secret - demons' name could however be secrets people neede to uncover, mainly during exorcisms, but it can be argued this is a rule of every exorcism ritual around the world, the name/nature/identity of the evil presence needs to be identified.]
Well, Le Guin's inspiration were the Chinese Dao/Tao concepts of "zhen ming", "true names", and "zhen xing", "true shapes", used to create talismans which have power over spirits and demons. And the social traditions of the First Nations of Northern America, where children received two names - one public name that changed with the events in their life, and a secret unchanging one they preserved so evil spirits could not steal it. And the Egyptian legends where Isis stole Ra's true name to gain power, or of the "ren" part of the being, the "name" surviving after death. And the Polynesian sacredness or taboo-nature of specific names. (I could mention the South-Eastern Asian habit of protecting children by changing their name when they got cursed, or giving them false temporary names to trick spirits, but I am not quite sure Le Guin used it, whereas I know she did take inspiration from China, Polynesia and pre-colonization America)
And this is the whole irony of the thing. The introduction of "True Names" in American fantasy was done in an effort to create a non-European ambiance and flavor. Yet today it ended up becoming the emblem of the most European thing ever - fairies. It is a fascinating "snake bites its own tail" - in half a century, from trying to get away from European folklore, the Americans returned it all to European folklore.
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I honestly love the fact that True Names in IC can be incredibly long. Glaedr’s is several sentences. That must be so useful, because even if someone had his true name, they’d be sitting there trying to supercalifragilisticexpialidocious their way into victory.
A Good Omens Meta-Fic — Terms and Conditions Applied
Aziraphale acquires an old manuscript on demon summoning and is delighted to discover that humans have, somehow, classified Crowley as a Knowledge Demon.
Crowley is Deeply Offended by this.
Unfortunately for him, explaining why requires approximately four-thousand years of context.
Also available on Ao3
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Sometime pre-Apocalypse, Aziraphale acquires a collection of old manuscripts for his bookshop. All first editions, all valuable to the right buyer, priceless to Aziraphale.
He chooses to start with a manuscript on demon summoning. Well, less a manuscript than a catalogue.
Names, descriptions, ritual circles, written with the exactness expected of someone who knows that to get this information wrong means to invite something to feast upon your entrails.
It's annotated in many hands over generations of use, with handy categorization of "types" of demons. It's always fascinating what humans can pick up about the occult, or decide about the occult on their own without prompting.
Except, this book is surprisingly not useless.
Oh, most of it is nonsense: misspellings, names of fictional demons he recognizes from the fourth century, and blatantly false information. One so-called "lust demon" is the name of a particularly successful prostitute in Constantinople. (Lovely woman, made a fantastic AĹźure.)
It's the parts that aren't useless that concern him. About a third of the information is accurate, scattered throughout the catalogue among the nonsense.
Those entries contain True Names attached to summoning rituals. He can't tell who they summon, but they certainly summon the entities attached to those Names.
Then, third entry in the Knowledge Demon section, a very familiar name. Crowley.
"Crowley? A Knowledge demon? This will make my decade," Aziraphale thinks.
The written Name seems off, but Aziraphale can't tell at a glance what's wrong with it. These True Names built into these rituals are written expressions of identity.
However, Crowley is Hell's most long-standing agent; he predates written language. A minor error in transcription is hardly impossible. The Name is ancient, passed through human hands, copied and recopied. Naturally, there would be inconsistencies.
He can feel the familiar power, so the ritual clearly works. After all, Names are not fragile things; they are not undone by a human copying error. They are the accumulated weight of what a being is.
He's glad he's rescued this manuscript from the humans; clearly this is a Good thing to keep from humanity (and not a convenient excuse for his book hoarding behaviors).
The entry only confirms what he could tell from the name. A list of behaviors his adversary has displayed for millennia, reading less like a demonic classification and more like a newspaper advertisement.
"Summon for forbidden knowledge, demonology, and astronomy."
There are annotations in many human hands in the margins of the entry:
Be prepared to pay up-front.
Be specific.
Be polite. He holds grudges.
The humans, Aziraphale reluctantly admits, seem to have observed Crowley rather accurately.
Which only makes the category itself more baffling. Crowley has never struck Aziraphale as a demon interested in knowledge for its own sake. Clever, certainly. Curious, often. But scholarship? Absolutely not.
Aziraphale cannot decide what is more entertaining: that humans have somehow decided Crowley is a Knowledge Demon, or that Crowley is going to be absolutely furious about it.
Naturally, Aziraphale calls Crowley.
Aziraphale: They've labeled you as a knowledge demon.
Crowley: Humans categorize everything.
Aziraphale: Those are unmistakably your behaviors.
Crowley is deeply embarrassed at being recorded as a Knowledge Demon, but after realizing Aziraphale will absolutely keep asking questions, he decides to explain the whole situation.
The "Wise" King and the Idiot Knowledge Demon
It starts with King Solomon and one Idiot Knowledge Demon.
Humans know the story that King Solomon summoned 1,000 demons. Like most human stories about demons, it has been exaggerated beyond recognition. What actually happened was that Solomon got lucky and found a Knowledge Demon in his court.
Now, Knowledge Demons are all boring swots. They are also susceptible to flattery, every last one. And this one was particularly stupid when he answered all of King Solomon's questions honestly and gave him not just the idea of demon summoning, but the building blocks to figure it out.
The problem wasn't that a human learned something humans shouldn't know. Humans have always learned things they shouldn't know. The problem was that a demon handed a human being the framework to teach other humans.
Crowley's not mad at Solomon. Never met the guy, but respects him for reading the mark correctly and asking the right questions.
It's what Crowley would do if he were mortal: standard Temptation Demon behavior in human packaging. Irritating that he recorded it, though.
It's the Idiot Knowledge Demon he's furious at.
If the Knowledge Demon gave Solomon a way to summon himself, that would have been fine. If he gave Solomon rituals to summon rival demons, co-workers, or enemies as petty revenge, that would have been funny. Still monumentally stupid, but in the familiar "underestimating humans"/short-sighted Hell stupidity sort of way.
Humans recognize patterns. They experiment. They iterate. And this Idiot Knowledge Demon didn't just hand out a dictionary; they handed out a language primer. To a King. That's careless stupidity that affects everybody else. (Read: Crowley, specifically.)
Without the building blocks, there was a chance, slim though it was, that the knowledge could have been contained or lost. Instead, that Idiot made it seem interesting and useful. Relevant to Solomon's interests. So, the knowledge spread.
It was once just an annoying anecdote to Crowley. He could see the writing on the wall: humans had learned to summon demons, and eventually they were going to experiment until they summoned something they shouldn’t and got eaten. Then some other human would find the bloody research and experiment some more.
That was normal human behavior. Humans were always doing dangerous things. Crowley only started paying attention when he realized that, statistically speaking, one of those dangerous things was eventually going to be done to him. He didn't care until he got caught in a summoning ritual.
See, for better or worse, Crowley is a famous demon. People like seeking the familiar. It was around the time that he was changing his name from Crawley to Crowley that humans got lucky, and he was caught.
Oh, Crowley got out eventually. Tricked his way out and destroyed both them and the ritual. But he never wanted to be inconvenienced like this again. Because what if next time some self-righteous human decided to summon demons, destroy them when they didn't cooperate, or dispose of them once they outlived their usefulness?
Crowley doesn't start with a plan. He starts with paranoia. He uses a few miracles to disguise himself and inserts himself into the circles of human magicians who think they understand demon summoning. He learns their terminology: identity, containment, binding, compulsion, release. He memorizes the rituals, removes the evidence, and leaves them with their memories slightly less useful than they started.
He repeats the process fifteen times. Not because he expects fifteen answers, but because humans are terrible at agreeing with each other. The number was never the point. The point was that Crowley had done archaeological research on human stupidity, because he needed to find what stuck.
What surprises him is not that humans are wrong. Humans are wrong constantly. What surprises him is that they are wrong in different ways while independently stumbling toward the same underlying rules.
Beneath all the differences are constants. A demon needs an identity to be bound, a structure to contain it, and an endpoint to release it. The release clause is the strangest part: a human invention created because permanent bindings kept failing catastrophically. They thought they were making the prison stronger. They had accidentally built the door. (Small mercies.)
Crowley can work with this. Not because he has solved demon summoning, and certainly not because he is smarter than every magician who ever lived. He is simply one of the few people who can compare fifteen different traditions because he remembers the entire timeline. Humans discovered the same rules over and over again. Crowley is one of the few people with enough perspective to notice the pattern.
That's enough. He doesn't have a plan. Not exactly. He has a collection of emergency measures, several contingency plans, and one extremely specific problem he refuses to have again.
Aziraphale: "You planned all this?"
Crowley: "In retrospect? Less a plan than seventeen emergency solutions wearing a trench coat. All directed at one very specific problem."
Aziraphale: "Which was?"
Crowley: "Never being trapped in a summoning circle again."
A Matter of Definition (It's a Kind of Magic)
To bind a demon for a summoning requires a Name and a release clause. The ritual doesn't understand intent; it understands definitions. A Name is not a command; it's an agreement about what something is.
So Crowley asks the sort of question that occurs to very few people and should probably occur to no one: what if the definition already included the exit? (What if his Name was irrevocably paired with a release clause?)
The question sounded impossible. Crowley had never mistaken "impossible" for "uninteresting."
The thing is, True Names are not written records or magic passwords. They are definitions: the shape an identity leaves behind.
And definitions are only as permanent as everyone agrees they are.
Changing one should be impossible. Most beings are too fixed in what they are to even imagine trying. An angel is an angel. A demon is a demon. Their Names are not labels placed upon them; they are the accumulated weight of everything they have been.
Crowley is an exception. Imagination has always been one of the things that defines him, and he is a serpent by nature. He cannot erase what he was — the Fall, the Garden, the things he has done — but he can shed an old skin, grow a new one, and leave enough evidence behind that reality has no choice but to acknowledge the new definition. (Reality, convenient just this once, has always been partly a matter of consensus.)
It takes scouring the globe for references to him and his Name. He changes and edits his Name in records where he can, defaces and destroys where he must, and modifies memories to reflect the changes. To make this new piece of his Name stick, he needs proof that it exists — in the form he wants it to.
Aziraphale, interrupting: Crowley, people don't edit their True Names.
Crowley: No, but Snakes shed their skins.
The only remaining problem is Hell's records. And that's where the second, concurrent scheme comes in.
The Department of Infernal Affairs (Don't Stop Me Now)
See, demon summoning wasn't actually good for Hell either. Demon summoning itself doesn't automatically consign souls to Hell, no matter how much Hell wishes it did.
What it does do is interrupt the temptation schedule and trap demons in place, serving silly humans for months if not years at a time. That's too inefficient for Hell's standards. (And it isn't like Crowley was going to volunteer that there was already a release clause to Lower Management.)
So, Hell finds demon summoning a problem. Crowley also finds demon summoning a problem, if not for the same reasons. So, for once in his life, he volunteers to Dagon to solve the problem.
... Make that Eighteen Solutions in a Trench coat.
Now, normally Crowley is nominally under Beelzebub, but this is not Beelzebub's problem. This isn't a temptation problem; it's an administrative failure wearing a supernatural hat. For Paperwork you turn to the reigning authority of Hell's administrative department, Dagon. She understands the language Hell actually speaks: paperwork.
Dagon does not put Crowley in charge. She puts him on the emergency committee because he is the only demon willing to explain why the current system is a disaster until someone listens. He is there to solve the immediate problem, not because Hell suddenly trusts him.
The first argument is that Hell needs standardized expectations. Crowley convinces Dagon they could use humanity's reckless, unplanned demon summoning to increase souls for Hell while stopping demons from being trapped to no benefit. But standards needed to be maintained: human summons demon, demon performs the agreed task (or tasks), Hell gets the soul on death. Humans won't spread the information if they're immediately eaten for the audacity.
Crowley, selling the idea to Dagon: "The terms can be as bastardly as you want, so long as the contract is fulfilled to the letter. It has to look like a good idea to desperate humans. We don't want them dead—we want them walking away saying, 'I got everything I wanted, but I dearly wish I hadn't.' Trust me, humans are stupid enough to only hear the first half."
Crowley knows Dagon will not believe him on theory alone. This is Hell; they don't have the luxury of faith, belief, or trust. (That's Heaven's problem.) They have paperwork. And paperwork requires evidence.
He designs a "sample" summoning circle as a proof of concept for Dagon, pointing out the component parts and, most importantly, the release clause. After all, trapped demons become destructive demons who draw attention to themselves, compromise the whole operation, and eventually invite Smitings.
Dagon did not believe Crowley was telling the truth. She believed Crowley was telling a version of the truth that was useful. In Hell, this was practically honesty.
Crowley's first practical improvement to the system is payment. He successfully argues that prices should be left to the individual demon. Most demons set dramatic prices: souls, virgins' blood, firstborn children. Crowley instead recommends wealth or favors in exchange for knowledge. Simple, scalable, and no less tempting.
Dagon assumes Crowley's motives are simple: revenge against That Idiot Knowledge Demon who created centuries of unnecessary administrative work, and personal profit. She is correct on both counts. She just misses the third, more embarrassing reason: Crowley really does not want to be summoned against his will ever again.
Thus, Dagon approves the framework, not because she believes Crowley's motives are noble, but because Hell has never required noble motives. It is exactly the sort of terrible compromise Hell specializes in.
Having explained everything to Dagon's satisfaction, he leaves her to draft a standardized form for demon summoning (because Hell is paperwork; never let anyone tell you otherwise).
As part of implementing the new system, Crowley gets temporary access to Dagon's files. Not authority. Access. There is a difference, and Crowley is very careful about that distinction. He uses that access to review the Names already circulating through human occult traditions and identify which demons could safely participate in the new arrangement. Someone has to make sure the summoning information doesn't accidentally lead humans straight to demons who will ruin the entire arrangement by eating the summoner, breaking contracts, or drawing unnecessary attention. (The alternative is trusting demons who already thought "eat the summoner" was a reasonable business model.)
His criteria are simple:
Knowledge demons who have made it their entire personality. Susceptible to flattery, thus easy to predict.
Lust demons, because of course.
Demons suited to long-term or subtle revenge, including those capable of individual, untraceable murders.
Demons capable of fulfilling large-scale contracts without making themselves the problem. A completed contract was useful; a trail of supernatural disasters was just bad business.
Contract demons in the mold of the fictional Mephistopheles, not demons who would immediately eat the summoner and ruin a good thing for everyone else.
That Specific Idiot Knowledge Demon who started this whole mess. Let him experience the consequences of his actions.
During that review, Crowley notices that Hell's filing system is exactly as reliable as you would expect from demons who consider spelling optional. Hell's records of True Names are not treated as sacred; they are administrative identifiers, maintained by demons who think accuracy is a suggestion and alphabetical order is a personal attack.
Which is why nobody notices when Crowley corrects his own records. Everyone assumes the inconsistencies were already there. Nobody is stupid enough to falsify Hell's paperwork. Nobody except Crowley.
Crowley quietly adds one more requirement to his own contracts: payment up front. After ruining twenty-six people who thought "I'll pay later" was a reasonable negotiation tactic, he considers the lesson learned.
Crowley's stated goal in all this was to secure a non-miracled source of income, should he ever find himself on the outs with Hell. (He'd seen Heaven restrict Aziraphale's miracles before. He didn't think Hell was creative enough to do the same without someone suggesting it, but he wasn't about to chance it.)
If Crowley is scrutinized for this, let it be for double-dipping and exploiting humans. Greed is encouraged in Hell. Editing Dagon's files is grounds for discorporation if caught.
Brand Recognition and Hellish Customer Service
Crowley's business model is simple. If summoners were polite, they got information to the amount Crowley felt they paid for. If they were impolite or tried to take advantage of him, they got information that was technically correct, seemingly helpful, and disastrous to implement. Malicious compliance was not a flaw in the system; it was the system.
Crowley never lied. That would be bad business. A contract was only interesting when everyone got exactly what they agreed to and regretted it afterward.
"Knowledge Demon" wasn't a classification. It was marketing.
The thing is, despite not requiring souls as payment, Crowley's contracts never stood out in Hell's records. People who summon demons tend to have already made plenty of other choices that lead them there. The summoning is simply the dramatic part they remember. By the time the soul arrives in Hell, they're thinking, "It must have been the demon," and Crowley has never been inclined to correct the misunderstanding.
The rare exceptions were exactly what annoyed him about the whole system. Some people summoned demons because they were desperate, curious, or trying to solve a problem — not because they were particularly awful. If they asked for knowledge, paid their price, and fulfilled their contract honestly, Crowley had nothing to collect. Repentance was not his department. Heaven could sort out the rest.
Crowley is still deeply embarrassed by being classified as a Knowledge Demon. He thrives on being underestimated, after all. The label is a mix of misunderstanding and patch job. He isn't a Knowledge Demon; if anything, he's a freelancer, but Hell didn't have a word for that when this scheme was active.
The truly offensive part was that "Knowledge Demon" was not even entirely wrong. It was simply the least flattering possible description of what he did.
What Crowley will not admit is that the label is also useful. He knew he would be summoned. By organizing the system, he guaranteed it. Better to be summoned for something he actually enjoys doing than have someone deliberately summon the Serpent of Eden.
This lasted approximately three centuries until humans got bored. Or as Crowley tells Aziraphale:
Crowley: There was a perfectly ordinary fire in the area where we tested the new procedures. The problem was that you happened to be there on unrelated business, performing completely legitimate miracles at exactly the wrong time. Hell detected enough divine miracles surrounding the whole thing, and because demons are shit at geography, they assumed the operation had been Smited. Demons don't have the patience to restart long-term schemes like this once they believe Heaven's noticed, so Hell's opinion boiled down to "fun while it lasted, back to the regular programming."
You got a commendation for stopping the demon-summoning scheme, Heaven got a victory, and I didn't have to explain that it wasn't Divine Intervention. Humanity just got bored.
In Hell, Dagon stole the credit and received the commendation for fixing demon summoning. Crowley did not object; recognition was a liability when the real prize was access. Dagon got the official victory. Crowley got exactly what he wanted. The money was useful. The Name was the point.
Crowley got his Name forever entwined with the runic shorthand for "demon will be released at contract's termination." (Not completion; the standard release clause uses completion. Crowley can terminate the contract whenever he likes.) He also walked away with a small pile of mortal wealth, invested and available in an emergency should he ever find himself on the outs with Hell.
The official, Crowley-approved instructions are rare these days, but demon summoning circle instructions can still be found if one cares to look. Humans do what humans do best: identify the component parts of the ritual circle and plug-and-play demon Names.
Crowley doesn't guard his Name as well as he used to. He doesn't need to. Once his Name stopped being a key to a prison and became the key to the door, guarding it became rather pointless. He's not mad about the summonings; he just finds explaining the rules repeatedly incredibly boring.
Modern demons require modern solutions: He scares the bored teenagers, trades information with broke, desperate college students, fleeces the trust-fund kids (college student or otherwise; unfortunately the "Knowledge Demon" reputation has stuck), and accepts an IOU from anyone unprepared to make payment in advance. An IOU that's enforced in the sense that he'll Ruin anyone who decides not to pay when he comes to collect.
But for those who try to peg him as the sort of demon Hastur is? Those who try to offer human, or worse, child sacrifices? Well, he's always pleased to help maintain the Arrangement and bolster the angel's paperwork. Taking out a demon summoning ring or cult tends to look good to the Higher Ups. They violated Crowley's Terms and voided the Contract; he can leave at any time.
The Shape of Crowley (Is Always a Serpent)
The absurdity of it is that Aziraphale had called Crowley expecting embarrassment. He had expected Crowley to object to being misunderstood. Instead, he had discovered that the category was merely incomplete — and that the missing pieces were considerably more alarming.
The classification had not been entirely wrong. It had simply mistaken means for ends. Knowledge was one of Crowley's preferred tools, not because he valued information for its own sake, but because information changed behavior. The right answer, offered at the right moment and for the right price, could tempt far more effectively than force ever could.
Crowley is not merely a demon who tempts individuals; he is the Temptation Demon, and frighteningly well-suited to the role. His understanding of humanity, contracts, incentives, and consequences makes him capable of influencing people and systems on a scale few demons could match.
Crowley's mind works by identifying weaknesses, predicting behavior, and quietly adjusting circumstances until events unfold in the direction he intended. It's the nature of the Serpent showing through: patience, adaptability, and the ability to wait for the right moment instead of forcing an outcome. If he were truly interested in Hell's goals, he could be an extraordinarily effective demon — not because he enjoys destruction, but because he understands choice.
But Hell's goals bore him. Simple corruption, cruelty, and destruction are obvious and temporary. Crowley is interested in complexity: loopholes, unintended consequences, human choices, and watching what happens when people are given enough room to act. He is not safe because he lacks the ability to be dangerous. He is safe because he has spent millennia deciding what is worth the danger.
Humans had mistaken the product for the salesman. They thought Crowley sold knowledge. Crowley sold choices. Knowledge was just one of his better products.
Tag game post and shameless advertisement for my incredibly skilled, talented artist and friend, Nick @quinthebard - you're tagged, btw! 🌟
Tempest “Genie” Eugenia Valourheart
As many of you already know.
But what I haven’t shared... is that for the past 300 years, her family has adopted conventional Faerûnian names to better navigate the political world of Baldur’s Gate. Their Katashakan names and heritage are closely guarded secrets, known only within the family. They conceal their origins to protect both themselves and the wider world from the entity lying dormant in their bloodline - a curse inherited from the ancestor who bound himself to an evil purpose and became the instrument of a civilisation’s downfall.
Tempest no longer uses Eugenia, the name given to her at birth. As a Sorceress Adept of the War Wizards, she was required to choose a new name during her proving - one that reflects her combat abilities while obscuring her identity from enemy eyes. The Cormyrian Royal Mages deliberately recruit those without strong family ties, shaping them into instruments wholly devoted to the cause and loyal to the throne.
Inyazi
Her Katashakan name, meaning “lightning” and inspired by the Xhosa & Zulu languages: Unyazi. It is a common practice for the Valourhearts to give their scions names associated with the sky.
Inhliziyo Yonyazi
And, authentic to D&D tradition, Tempest also has a true name - one never meant to be spoken aloud: Inhliziyo Yonyazi, meaning “Heart of Lightning” (Zulu/South African origin). If that doesn’t have destiny written all over it, I don’t know what does.
"Roro" inyoni yezulu
The storm entity dormant within her heart is called Roro, an Easter egg referencing Ororo Munroe. Roro is one of the divine inyoni yezulu (Xhosa/Zulu origins: "bird of the sky"). The storm eagles: rulers of the skies, also known in shamanic tradition as Children of the Sky Mother.
Thank you for tagging me, @saylofwaterdeep & @ceremorph0sis!
I am tempted to learn the lute and then take my friend who knows witchcraft and my other friend who reads tarot cards and gather every whimsical person we can find then we all disappear into the woods to be fae. Eating delicious foods, making our own beautiful flowy clothes, picking flowers, dancing for days, and scaring passersby and stealing their names. All while defying any idea of gender of course. And all birth / legal names are discarded, your true name is whatever name you like. And even then you get to make up a new name to tell someone is your name practically every time we encounter someone new because obviously you’re not going to give them your true name (unless you want to). And we can’t lie and those who we kidnap away just get to be fae with us and we spend eternity having fun and affecting the seasons with magic. Anyone want to join me? Let’s just go. Go be fae. If that was coherent. @ezrableh twin? Yeah? My twin’s mutuals can come to. Anyone really. Just be whimsical and willing. If not I guess you can be the first we steal away.
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I haven't actually formed any coherent thoughts about this but as an Earthsea girlie and a Murderbot girlie I'm just spinning ideas about secret names and true names and the names we give ourselves and that others give us and how much POWER you can have over someone when you have their true name and what their true name reveals about them...
Anyways Ged and Murderbot are shaking hands in my brain đź‘Ť
When you cast a spell which targets a single creature whose true name you know, you may choose to invoke that creature's true name by verbally speaking it as part of the incantation if the spell has a verbal component, or by thinking the name if it does not. If you invoke the creature's true name, the creature automatically fails any saving throws associated with your spell.
Additionally, if a creature whose true name you know casts a spell which targets only you, you may choose to invoke the true name by speaking it aloud as part of a magical incantation. If you do, you automatically succeed any saving throws associated with the spell.
Lastly, you may invoke a creature's true name to end any spell that targets only that creature (can't be done on yourself) (unless the DM thinks it's cool).
Depending on how your combat looks, it can be a good idea to declare that invoking these names requires some particular magical talent, and impose a limit on how often it can be done - it kind of depends on whether you're running really fast, plot-driven combats, or your combats usually involve the players dumping most of their arsenal - it's a game balance judgement call. In general though it's nice to have it feel heavy, when the names come out.
Who Has a True Name?
An individual's true name is the name to which they are most connected. This could be a name that they personally identify with, or it could just be the name that represents them the best (I run this as largely a case-by-case decision at the table). For most mortals, their true names are just their given names. In places where casters are common enough that this puts people whose names aren't hidden in real danger, parents will often give their children two names - one true name, and one name for public use.
It is possible for an individual to be unaware of their own true name - this is most commonly the case when the individual is separated from their parents before learning their given name, and when the individual is suffering some form of mundane or magical amnesia.
It is possible for true names to change, depending on the individual's nature - a person's connection to a name is ultimately what drives the magical power of the name itself.
Examples of True Names
A God's first name, given to it by its first worshippers. Must be found in some ancient ruins, or learned from the last of those worshippers that is still alive.
A mournful spirit of a mountain was once lovers with a spirit of the sea. The mountain spirit's true name is the epithet which the sea spirit called them.
Plot Beats with True Names
Two contenders for the throne of a kingdom are siblings, and know each other's true names. This provides a sort of mutually assured destruction, and leads to incredible degrees of paranoia.
An organization demands that individuals divulge their true name before being allowed to join. This could be the bodyguards of an important ruler, a cult of personality, or some other high-control group.
A powerful wizard has imprisoned their parents, because the parents are the only other ones who know their true name.
A shadowy guild collects true names of spirits and important mortals, and keeps them in a heavily guarded library. They'll sell them, at a high price.
