Throughout history, the Makebate has lurked in plain sight. He was there at the fall of Rome, his very presence acerbating arguments and inciting petty squabbles. He went where the Devil hired him to go, from the courts of kings to the tents of tribal chiefs. It was never known to him just what he was accomplishing through his malign aura, just that he had to be there at that time to do it.
Over the centuries, his skill with it grew, and the fee he was paid increased as his master made him dance to ever more complex tunes. Focusing his will, he incited stubbornness and foolhardy pride in royalty, to let others rise up and depose them in brutal acts of regicide, with the justification that it ended acts of harsh tyranny.
As the years passed, his mastery grew along with the duplicity and depths of cunning of the humans he was sent to lead astray. In Hell, his coffers were ever filling with gold paid for his deeds. And yet he would always yearn for his time among the mortal world, asking his master for whatever reason he could to bring strife among the humans.
The Devil knew why, and in magnanimous gestures did as he was asked. Because, for all the Makebate’s mastery of his talent, there was always one place his grasp of it failed: the marital home.