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[CHAR] Divinus: The Deity Roleplay, Mk. V
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- Post-Apocalyptic
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- GM Commodore Co-GM Zurajai Co-GM AdorableSaucer
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Zurajai Unintentional Never-Poster
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LONN
Domain:
God of Mortals - Born during the heart of the apocalypse, Lonn is the human condition made manifest. The domain of mortals focuses not in the creation of races or their works but instead every aspect of what makes a sapient, intelligent life-form truly be “alive”. Within his domain exists the components of personal growth, the range of sapient emotions, aspirations for greater things, the capacity to enact conflict, and the ultimate mortality related to such a mode of existence. Lonn revels in the love in the hearts of men in equal measure to their hate and professes adoration for their passions, big and small, no matter the target or their aims.
The Domain of Mortals thus commands the very thing that makes people unique, empowering Lonn to encourage both the greatest and worst excesses within Mortals to complete both great and terrible things. Lonn is the fire in the hearts of men that makes them reach for better lives and the lightning in their minds that makes them dash aside the lives of others.
The Red Lance of Lonn
Ardal ald Ardalan sat brooding within the shadowed confines of his urdu, his court and guards having been sent away in his most recent bout of fury. Outside the burlap barrier of the war-tent a camp grew out in all directions, filled with hundreds if not thousands of warriors. It was a host the likes of which the land had not seen in the age of fire yet, despite all that Ardal had done, those blasted walls refused to even shudder.
A hundred yards from his camp stood those blasted parapets that kept secured the fortress of Wold. Impenetrable Walls of Wold, they called them.
“Blasted, bedeviled Woldians…”
Ardal had laid siege to that damned stronghold for the better part of a year now and still it held, well supplied from years of fattening themselves on the realms abroad and secure from the raids that harried most settled folk. The Age of Fire had brought low so many peoples but there, in their bunkers and hard points, the Woldians had found for themselves a keep made by the ancients. The warlord had paid every price he could to hire engineers, those who had knowledge of physic and iron, to build machines to bring them down and yet still they stood, mocking him.
Ardal was pulled from his restlessness by the shining of a light, a bright red glow that slowly grew till the entirety of his urdu burned bright with that crimson incandescence. Ardal drew his saber, a fanged thing that looked vicious in his hand, and held it towards the light threateningly; Ardal had not earned his place through weakness and he had not been bowed by monsters before.
“Speak! Who dares scurry when Ardal the Unbowed stands alone!”
No figure appeared, instead the light coalescing into a single point then extending outward into a line of crackling arterial dread. There was malice within that baleful light but benevolence as well, warming the part of Ardal that had driven him so long ago to take up the sword in the first place.
“Ardal,” shuddered a voice, rippling out from the rod of red in a piercing static shock to the Warlod’s senses, “Truly, you are the best of them.”
Ardal stared blank eyed for a moment, blinking as he churned through the mountain of information provided in but a single sentence. The thing knew of him, that much was certain, and its dread visage formed into that of a lance seemed to reflect that intuition with ecstatic motion. It rippled and bit at the air around it, remaining completely unmoving beyond the unnerving motion of its changing shape. What exactly this thing was, Ardal did not know, but if it knew him and spoke highly of him, who was he to speak ill of it? His weapon lowered, if only slightly, as it continued to speak.
“You deserve this, Ardal; those preening eidolons a top their platinum towers. Did they struggle as you did in this Age of Fire? Did they earn what they have or simply sit upon the works of greater men; YOUR ancestors, at that! And now they have the gall to laugh at your efforts? Such rank unfortunates, the whole lot of them; damned Woldian wolves, I say.”
Ardal again stood unmoving, decades of struggle and effort and reward having taught him patience more than anything. He dare not speak a word as the entity whispered sweet nothings at him, doubting severely its intentions as it seemed to agree with his every thought and desire. If someone you have never met agrees with everything you say, something is amiss, after all.
“Your worry is unnecessary, good Ardal,” echoed the voice, the cloth walls of the urdu rippling at its insistence, “For I am a generous benefactor who offers much and asks little. Your goals are my goals, good Ardal, and my means will be your ends. Take up my lance, wise King; with it, all you rightly deserve is but a toss away.”
The red light receded inwards toward the lance, though the rod still rippled and gnashed at the air, sparking like lightning waxing crimson. Now an aura of cardinal brightness roared out about a meter in diameter around the spear, the center of the deadly spike seeming to calm as if offering itself as a grip for the warlord. With hands barely trembling as Ardal did his best to contain his emotions, the warrior-who-would-be-king slowly stepped forward as a voice in his ear began to cheer him on. Voices from his childhood, from his early days, from his rise, supporters and foes alike, all telling him this is what he deserved, what he had earned. Fingers reached forth to cautiously brushed against the spear and in an instant it was in his closed fist, as if jumping to his hand between the blink of an eye and forcing his digits closed upon it.
Power surged through Ardal’s veins, red arterial lightning flashing across every artery visible against his skin. His eyes widened, the man feeling greater than he ever had before. An energy coursed in his heart and drove him to walk from the hall, no longer feeling the anxiety of the siege nor the exhaustion of his long conflicts. Several guards locked to attention as he strode out, seemingly unaware of what had occurred within the urdu. With surprised fascination they stared at the baleful weapon held within their master’s hand and with ferocious intent, Ardal stared down the wood-packed road that led straight towards the no-man’s land between the camp and the walls.
Before Ardal stood his greatest enemy, the very walls of the Woldians that kept them safe and let them cast sneers and insults towards him. Rage rolled through his body and with it came the ecstasy of certainty, a confidence in his actions held only by a man ablaze. With all the fury and passion in his heart, Ardal stepped into a throwing stance and hurled the lance with all his strength towards Wold.
The lightning bolt lance launched down the path, its carmine radiance lighting the path as it travelled with the pace of the Age of Fire itself. A thunder crack shattered the silence of the night as the dread weapon skipped across the landscape and reached the wall faster than eyes could keep track. As the spike struck the wall it passed through, leaving a scorch mark in its space, before slamming into the heart of the city.
A tower of light rose from the center of the city followed by scorching heat and the deafening roar of a god let free. One second passed and the city of Wold exploded, the briefest screams of terror snuffed out in the blast. The column of red flame and lightning climbed well into the heavens, pushing the clouds of the night out in all directions and making, for an instance, the moon surrender to the light of day.
All around Ardal his men lay flattened, slowly rising back to observe the destruction wrought by their lord. Ardal himself shook, eyes wide, jaw dropped low. Before him, where once the Impenetrable Walls of Wold stood, now sat a crater. All he had hated, had wanted, was gone and in its place the ultimate expression of mankind’s willingness to act. As ash began to fall, Ardal’s awe struck visage drew back into the slightest smile; a generous benefactor indeed.
Ardal ald Ardalan sat brooding within the shadowed confines of his urdu, his court and guards having been sent away in his most recent bout of fury. Outside the burlap barrier of the war-tent a camp grew out in all directions, filled with hundreds if not thousands of warriors. It was a host the likes of which the land had not seen in the age of fire yet, despite all that Ardal had done, those blasted walls refused to even shudder.
A hundred yards from his camp stood those blasted parapets that kept secured the fortress of Wold. Impenetrable Walls of Wold, they called them.
“Blasted, bedeviled Woldians…”
Ardal had laid siege to that damned stronghold for the better part of a year now and still it held, well supplied from years of fattening themselves on the realms abroad and secure from the raids that harried most settled folk. The Age of Fire had brought low so many peoples but there, in their bunkers and hard points, the Woldians had found for themselves a keep made by the ancients. The warlord had paid every price he could to hire engineers, those who had knowledge of physic and iron, to build machines to bring them down and yet still they stood, mocking him.
Ardal was pulled from his restlessness by the shining of a light, a bright red glow that slowly grew till the entirety of his urdu burned bright with that crimson incandescence. Ardal drew his saber, a fanged thing that looked vicious in his hand, and held it towards the light threateningly; Ardal had not earned his place through weakness and he had not been bowed by monsters before.
“Speak! Who dares scurry when Ardal the Unbowed stands alone!”
No figure appeared, instead the light coalescing into a single point then extending outward into a line of crackling arterial dread. There was malice within that baleful light but benevolence as well, warming the part of Ardal that had driven him so long ago to take up the sword in the first place.
“Ardal,” shuddered a voice, rippling out from the rod of red in a piercing static shock to the Warlod’s senses, “Truly, you are the best of them.”
Ardal stared blank eyed for a moment, blinking as he churned through the mountain of information provided in but a single sentence. The thing knew of him, that much was certain, and its dread visage formed into that of a lance seemed to reflect that intuition with ecstatic motion. It rippled and bit at the air around it, remaining completely unmoving beyond the unnerving motion of its changing shape. What exactly this thing was, Ardal did not know, but if it knew him and spoke highly of him, who was he to speak ill of it? His weapon lowered, if only slightly, as it continued to speak.
“You deserve this, Ardal; those preening eidolons a top their platinum towers. Did they struggle as you did in this Age of Fire? Did they earn what they have or simply sit upon the works of greater men; YOUR ancestors, at that! And now they have the gall to laugh at your efforts? Such rank unfortunates, the whole lot of them; damned Woldian wolves, I say.”
Ardal again stood unmoving, decades of struggle and effort and reward having taught him patience more than anything. He dare not speak a word as the entity whispered sweet nothings at him, doubting severely its intentions as it seemed to agree with his every thought and desire. If someone you have never met agrees with everything you say, something is amiss, after all.
“Your worry is unnecessary, good Ardal,” echoed the voice, the cloth walls of the urdu rippling at its insistence, “For I am a generous benefactor who offers much and asks little. Your goals are my goals, good Ardal, and my means will be your ends. Take up my lance, wise King; with it, all you rightly deserve is but a toss away.”
The red light receded inwards toward the lance, though the rod still rippled and gnashed at the air, sparking like lightning waxing crimson. Now an aura of cardinal brightness roared out about a meter in diameter around the spear, the center of the deadly spike seeming to calm as if offering itself as a grip for the warlord. With hands barely trembling as Ardal did his best to contain his emotions, the warrior-who-would-be-king slowly stepped forward as a voice in his ear began to cheer him on. Voices from his childhood, from his early days, from his rise, supporters and foes alike, all telling him this is what he deserved, what he had earned. Fingers reached forth to cautiously brushed against the spear and in an instant it was in his closed fist, as if jumping to his hand between the blink of an eye and forcing his digits closed upon it.
Power surged through Ardal’s veins, red arterial lightning flashing across every artery visible against his skin. His eyes widened, the man feeling greater than he ever had before. An energy coursed in his heart and drove him to walk from the hall, no longer feeling the anxiety of the siege nor the exhaustion of his long conflicts. Several guards locked to attention as he strode out, seemingly unaware of what had occurred within the urdu. With surprised fascination they stared at the baleful weapon held within their master’s hand and with ferocious intent, Ardal stared down the wood-packed road that led straight towards the no-man’s land between the camp and the walls.
Before Ardal stood his greatest enemy, the very walls of the Woldians that kept them safe and let them cast sneers and insults towards him. Rage rolled through his body and with it came the ecstasy of certainty, a confidence in his actions held only by a man ablaze. With all the fury and passion in his heart, Ardal stepped into a throwing stance and hurled the lance with all his strength towards Wold.
The lightning bolt lance launched down the path, its carmine radiance lighting the path as it travelled with the pace of the Age of Fire itself. A thunder crack shattered the silence of the night as the dread weapon skipped across the landscape and reached the wall faster than eyes could keep track. As the spike struck the wall it passed through, leaving a scorch mark in its space, before slamming into the heart of the city.
A tower of light rose from the center of the city followed by scorching heat and the deafening roar of a god let free. One second passed and the city of Wold exploded, the briefest screams of terror snuffed out in the blast. The column of red flame and lightning climbed well into the heavens, pushing the clouds of the night out in all directions and making, for an instance, the moon surrender to the light of day.
All around Ardal his men lay flattened, slowly rising back to observe the destruction wrought by their lord. Ardal himself shook, eyes wide, jaw dropped low. Before him, where once the Impenetrable Walls of Wold stood, now sat a crater. All he had hated, had wanted, was gone and in its place the ultimate expression of mankind’s willingness to act. As ash began to fall, Ardal’s awe struck visage drew back into the slightest smile; a generous benefactor indeed.
Base Form: Lonn presents himself in a number of forms as relevant to his current scheme or project, but primarily dances between three major figures that are actively recognizable by peoples familiar with the deity. Though depictions may vary culturally, he will regularly take up these forms to interact with mortals and gods alike.
Lonn the Fulminator, a crimson bolt of light that dances light a lightning bolt through the sky. Though capable of holding a vaguely humanoid shape, this is a facsimile of such a body and nothing more. It is in this form that he interacts with mortals in the most supportive way, empowering them to action in the most literal of senses. It is from this form in particular that Lonn’s nicknames relating to lightning and the color red are derived.
Lonn the Transient, where Lonn inhabits the form of a human man. The human facsimile of Lonn is not noticeably tall, skinny, or even attractive. A shock of red hair, well within the normal range of human hair color, is common but not always present and is often changed to blend in with peoples with less common hair colors. What is common throughout is a set of perfect teeth, pristine to the point of being noticeably uncanny.
Lonn the Destroyer, where Lonn occupies the form of a human-esque skeleton. The material of Lonn’s structure appears reminiscent of the old ruins of mankind and his internals seem lit by reddish power. He occupies this form as a beacon of violence, promoting riotous behavior, the annihilation of one’s enemies, and a perpetual willingness to do anything to complete one’s goals. It is this skeleton icon to which soldiers pray, assassins swear oaths upon, and Warlords secretly whisper their deepest desires towards in the dark of night.
True Form: Though Lonn’s truest form can, in many ways, be prone to change as any person might change throughout their life, the two forms most regularly seen in such dire times are that of the Throne and the Annihilation.
The Throne of Want, Lonn’s pure representation of mortal desires, needs, and capacity for greatness, appears as a carven throne with a skeletal figure sunken within. Upon presenting such an icon of overwhelming mortal experience, the exact size and vastness of the Throne becomes unbearable. The skeletal figure sunken within represents the nature of mortals, ruling upon a throne of their own making but trapped within that greatness like a tomb. The dead-eyed stare of the Red God bares down on those who observe it, seeing their thoughts pour from the icon of mortality as sprawling streams of thoughts carven into reality.
The Annihilation of Awe, the rarest of such presented identities, represents the capacity for mortals to bring about their own end. A massive red explosion, filled with crimson fire and arterial lightning, thunders outward from a single point consuming everything in its path. Although brought about by a deity, the Annihilation of All harkens to the world shattering magics that sundered the world in their numerous, baleful glows during the height of the apocalypse. Within the explosive maelstrom, for those capable of peering within, the rising image of a furious skull, grinning and grimacing in equal measure.
Musical Theme: Lonn's Theme
DELETED jdl3932 Sok Il-Seong / (Second Initiation)
Banned
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The Pestilent King || Lord of Rot || Exarch of Decay"Fear not child, for the rot shall make us one and the same."
Domain: Corruption. The slow rot and decay of living things into their primordial bases, the spreading of virulent pestilence and withering disease, and the slow destruction of physical reality. All of these fall within Xem's domain. Souls however, or other immaterial concepts such as morality and ethics, do not. Because of this Xem is unable to affect them. Xem is able to affect inorganic objects and materials with his decay however, albeit at a much slower rate in comparison to organic matter. Finally, regardless of form, Xem can induce corruption and decay in the environment around him. While his true form does this near-instantaneously, his base form must remain in an area for several hours if the rot is to truly take hold.
MythPits bubble and hiss!
Pots boil and churn!
Flesh turns to a sickly crimson mist!
For the King watches man as he is quartered and burned!
It was said that Xem came into being as a consequence of the Apocalypse, but the truth is that he just seemed to appear out of thin air one day, hungry to unleash a never-ending tempest of decay and rot upon the broken world. As such any other goals the Pestilent King might have, if he truly possesses any, remain a complete and utter mystery to mortals and gods alike. This has put him at odds with practically every other member of the pantheon, as you might expect. Although he does maintain a somewhat amicable relationship with the goddess of death as well as the deities of war, due in no small part to the overlaps between their domains.
For just as war gives way to rot, so too does rot give way to death.
Base Form: Xem appears as a towering humanoid figure with a jackal's skull for a face and tattered yellow rags for clothes. His fingers are claws and his feet worm-riddled hooves, while tentacles burst forth from his chest to poke and prod at the air around him, hungry for prey they may drag into the god's gaping chest based maw. Xem's skin too is as sickly as his robes, being rendered yellow from jaundice; foul-smelling, and sickeningly pliable from rot. Lastly, the series of spikes jutting forth from his skull are his crown, verily the mark of his abhorrent royalty.
True Form: In his true form Xem is a massive beast dripping with rotten flesh, corpses, bile, and puss. He is flanked at all times by endless swarms of flies who infect those that draw too close with maggots and worms. Eyes line this form from head-to-toe also, with each looking progressively more jaundiced and infested than the last, while sacs filled with the organs of many sway to and fro as he walks. Finally, a sickly yellow smog billows forth from his many mouths, and it is rumored that mortals who breathe in these fumes will be liquified from the inside out.
Chris488 Doesn't write anymore
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6 mos ago
Name: Ekundayo, or Eku
Domain: Death, the domain which oversees the souls departure from the world of the living and its journey along the Path of the Dead. Ekundayo guides all souls to the afterlife where they my reflect and mature before being reborn, a time to contemplate and ponder the meaning of life and their purpose.
The Path of the Dead can be a lonely place where one's sanity can easily shatter, resulting in a soul wandering lost in the void for eternity. Ekundayo leads souls, and offers them direction, showing them the way, and revealing the nature of their lives to them through reflections and echoes of the past. She acts as a teacher, assisting the souls, and offering her presence in their times of need.
Ekundayo knows how to navigate the Path of the Dead, and can walk between the world of the living and the afterlife without losing her way. She protects souls from straying, and from the predations of unnatural things that lurk in the void.
Myth: The Unborn upon the Path of the Dead
"Do not cry."
She would have been a mother, though now her child is lost, dead in the womb before being born into this world. The boy was so little in the arms of his distraught mother, so still and silent. She watched as the mother could not hold back the tears that fell, and wept loudly.
"I will carry him."
She held onto the boy's soul, only a little fragment of light, akin to the mother holding his corpse. A unborn child would have little to say throughout their journey, so She sang softly as She departed the material world and once more walked along the Path of the Dead.
Ekundayo gazed upon the long road ahead, the silvery streams scattered across the sky, grey clouds gently lulling aimlessly, and the white stars shining in the vast void. The Path of the Dead would be lonely without Her presence, and those that traversed it would be lost without Her guidance.
"Do not fear death, little one. I shall keep you company until we reach where you belong."
And so the Goddess continued her journey.
Base Form: A petite pale woman that walks beside mortals along the Path of the Dead, or else simply a face emerging from a feild of fertile flesh and bone, blood dripping from her hungry eyes.
True Form: A towering monstrosity that walks upon six legs, gazing upwards with eyes closed. Its entrails are exposed but the creature is not wounded, as flowers, limbs, and sleeping children grow from its body. All who gaze upon this Its form seek to follow it along the Path of the Dead.
Musical Theme: Wonder Egg Priority OST - From the Netherworld, by Mito
youtube.com/watch?v=91NWIKQkH4Q&list=…
Domain: Death, the domain which oversees the souls departure from the world of the living and its journey along the Path of the Dead. Ekundayo guides all souls to the afterlife where they my reflect and mature before being reborn, a time to contemplate and ponder the meaning of life and their purpose.
The Path of the Dead can be a lonely place where one's sanity can easily shatter, resulting in a soul wandering lost in the void for eternity. Ekundayo leads souls, and offers them direction, showing them the way, and revealing the nature of their lives to them through reflections and echoes of the past. She acts as a teacher, assisting the souls, and offering her presence in their times of need.
Ekundayo knows how to navigate the Path of the Dead, and can walk between the world of the living and the afterlife without losing her way. She protects souls from straying, and from the predations of unnatural things that lurk in the void.
Myth: The Unborn upon the Path of the Dead
"Do not cry."
She would have been a mother, though now her child is lost, dead in the womb before being born into this world. The boy was so little in the arms of his distraught mother, so still and silent. She watched as the mother could not hold back the tears that fell, and wept loudly.
"I will carry him."
She held onto the boy's soul, only a little fragment of light, akin to the mother holding his corpse. A unborn child would have little to say throughout their journey, so She sang softly as She departed the material world and once more walked along the Path of the Dead.
Ekundayo gazed upon the long road ahead, the silvery streams scattered across the sky, grey clouds gently lulling aimlessly, and the white stars shining in the vast void. The Path of the Dead would be lonely without Her presence, and those that traversed it would be lost without Her guidance.
"Do not fear death, little one. I shall keep you company until we reach where you belong."
And so the Goddess continued her journey.
Base Form: A petite pale woman that walks beside mortals along the Path of the Dead, or else simply a face emerging from a feild of fertile flesh and bone, blood dripping from her hungry eyes.
True Form: A towering monstrosity that walks upon six legs, gazing upwards with eyes closed. Its entrails are exposed but the creature is not wounded, as flowers, limbs, and sleeping children grow from its body. All who gaze upon this Its form seek to follow it along the Path of the Dead.
Musical Theme: Wonder Egg Priority OST - From the Netherworld, by Mito
youtube.com/watch?v=91NWIKQkH4Q&list=…
Lord Zee I lost the game
Member
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9 hrs ago
Domain
Beauty - Creation is most often inane. Beset by crude designs far too commonplace to behold and mundane to fathom. For that which breaths life most often twists and shapes it into that of forms less than pleasing to any of the senses. These original forms are most often unoriginal. They are broken to the core and pitiful, lacking any sense of true self. It's not their fault of course, for they don't know any better. Thus, these creations must be worked upon, reshaped and altered to be fixed and purged of physical malformations. A task not to be taken lightly. For Wyn seeks to uphold beauty by changing that which isn't, to what it could be. With such help, anything can realize its own magnificence. Whether they want to, or not.
Wyn’s beauty can be wielded as the likes of a scalpel or butcher’s knife, changing the appearances of that which it touches to sights of pure bliss. The scalpel changes blemished skin to ivory. The broken roots of hair to splendor. A shoddy statue to glory. An artwork to a masterful level… Whilst the butcher’s knife rends to a greater design. Appearances and that which is pleasing to the eyes, is powerful imagery and Wyn can change even the simplest creature or thing into a champion of beauty. That which undergoes such alterations is desired by that which is not.
Beauty most often has a price to pay. A fee, a gift, a sacrifice. Wyn can both be a benevolent benefactor or a tyrant depending upon her mood and she will take or give with impunity. One must take great heed in not offending her or else there could be dire consequences. For beauty can be creatively cruel. Satisfying vanity will always be preferable to the sin of ugliness, even if the ugly can't help themselves. If at all there is an occasion that Wyn finds natural beauty, then she would be captivated by it. At the end of the day, beauty can be altered to take many inspiring forms and shapes, but it can only be truly beautiful if Wyn says so. That, in essence, is the nature of Wyn and her beauty.
Myth
Beneath musty tombs and moldy pages, you manage to find a survivor’s account of the Great Fall. Date Unknown. Origin Unknown. A quick flip through the pages finds that most of the writing is the makings of madness. Incoherent scribbles, old languages and abstract depictions of creatures that even a vibrant imagination couldn’t conjure. You at last flip to a page that has somewhat legible writing between the scribbles of the damned…
“...It chases us in the night… Night? Is it day? I have lost track since the smoke choked the sky and the clouds rippled with lightning. There is no rain. Just Ash. Why? Why does it chase us still? It ate…” The writing becomes illegible and you skip ahead.
“We are trapped. Turi says she is scared. That she does not want to die. I held her hand and told her everything was going to be okay. As I lied to her, I knew there would be no salvation. The river boils and cannot be crossed. We thought we lost it in the bluffs but even now… In the deep… I hear it. I hear… What do I hear? What beckons me this way or that?”
“It clicked and clacked, salivating with hunger as it looked upon us with a thousand eyes. The women screamed and the men wept, for this was our end. Was it not? But I had been wrong… Salvation did come. From the boiling river emerged the great head of something, hidden in the steam. I heard it spring forth and the thousand eyed-thing scream. I shielded my eyes from the…” More scribbles, forcing you to read on.
“The snake the snake the snake the snake! Ohhhh the snake! How it slithered, how it stretched! How it changed the eyes to gold and the flesh to to to… I-I I I cannot. Cannot! Cannot fathom or derive from this mind of mine the words… The illuminations…! The magnificence! Of he. Of she! I am jealous! So jealous so jealous! They died and I did not? Why is this flesh such agony?! Why?” The writing becomes just a long line until… “Why… I-I am losing myself… I was not meant to see… I cannot remember their faces… Turi… All I see is… The snake and the form the snake and the form the snake and the form! What form what form? What way which did the snake turn into.. Into… This world… Precipice of annihilation... Saved saved saved. Now dull. Dull. Dull? Faded… Grey… Color uncolorful. Why? My… My mind slips away… It should have killed me with that… that… Finality… Instead... These hands that write will do…”
The writing ends with a few more scribbles and a drawing of a massive snake that seemed to change into something… Something beautiful… What was it… What was- You blink and the image returns to that of the snake… Encircling a creature that had no right to be drawn so beautifully. You try to read the pages again but to your horror, it's all just scribbles...
Personality
They say it's what's on the inside that matters most and that good looks don't mean everything. That a just character will triumph over any sin and evil. Wyn would disagree. One could have the foulest soul known to mortalkind and yet, as long as they had a pretty face, Wyn wouldn't care what they were composed of or their morals, not unless they offended her. Despite being beautiful, Wyn is quite vain by nature, taking compliments about her looks as the highest form of flattery. She most often wanders around mortal lands in search of a project or praise, if she isn't up to some personal agenda. If not, she can be found at home sculpting or creating great works of art.
Around others she likes putting up a front or facade to lure people into a false perception of herself to obtain that delicious praise. But do be careful not to overstep your bounds for, at the flip of a switch, Wyn is most sinister to such lofty mortals, but more passive to her fellow gods. In fact, if a god were to offend her, she would hold a grudge for years, acting behind the scenes to obtain revenge. For only Beauty knows best.
Wyn can be the most charming of divines, sometimes kind if she wants something or she can be cruel and vindictive. Playing with hearts and minds to ever forward a beautiful world. Mortals, after all, are just broken toys that the gods let toil in ugliness, in need of fixing. While other gods are just inherently flawed creatures that usually make ugly things. All can be changed however, for beauty will endure no matter the form.
Base Form
Wyn does not restrict herself to one form at all times. She could be a man. A woman. A snake. A butterfly. It matters not what she looks like, only that she is always beautiful. These forms she takes are always clean, always smelling uniquely different to the individual and pleasing to the touch. Her beauty is the only beauty that matters after all and she is its pinnacle in any shape. If she must take a form for a long period of time however, she most often chooses that of frail women with white hair.
True Form
Her true form cannot be fathomed by mortal minds. It is everything that will ever be beautiful, that is beautiful and that ever was beautiful. It pleases all the senses beyond euphoria. Color beyond color, form beyond form, shape beyond shape… All forming the only pinnacle of a beautiful existence- Wyn. To bare witness to such a sight would be only to invoke a madness so profound that nothing ever makes sense ever again. The world loses all reason of reality. What is, is not and what is not, is. No mortal mind can stand it, for nothing else matters anymore but Wyn.
Crusader Lord A professional, anxiety-riddled, part-time worker
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A professional, anxiety-riddled, part-time worker
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Name
Arira
Domain
Goddess of Cycles - Within all things there is a pattern that lies beneath it all, a force of existence that normally is associated with change. From the changing of the seasons, to the growth of plants and animals, to the to the ever-circling flow of life and death and rebirth, to even changing of the time from day to night and vice-versa, these various 'cycles' and patterns of things form the basis for many things in the world. What rises from the dust will return to it, and from the dust will rise something else to take its place. Some cycles will end, and yet from this others will rise to take their place. Even mortals and gods alike, it seems, are intertwined in their own cycles of rising and falling and so forth. It is the way of all things, for some to rise and some to fall, for some to live and some to die, for some to grow and some to wither away, for some to remain trapped in a maddening loop of perpetuity, and so forth.
Cycles are a deathless concept, an eternal thing rooted in the ebb and flow of existence, a phantasmal 'deus-ex-machina' plinking about within the background of all things...watching on even if others are unaware of it. Even within stagnation, a lack of change, there is a cycle of perpetual idleness and decay that will either snuff itself out, continue on perpetually, or be eventually broken and replaced. Such is the nature of cycles, and such is the nature of their fate.
To attempt to be more defined, Arira can tweak cycles in a specific sort of way. Imagine it like 'controlling the time of something'. Arira can 'turn back' the cycle of life to give someone youth. She can 'end' the cycle of a disease in the body so it dies off. She can 'fast forward' the cycle of plant growth and accelerate it to a certain point in its life cycle. She can 'halt' the cycle of something, such as aging, in order to give eternal youth (not immortality, just youth). If a curse was placed on a land for 100 years, she can fast-forward the land itself (not the stuff on it or things living in it mind) to the point where the curse is gone...or rewind the cycle back to what it was like before the curse was placed.
She cannot, however, do things outside of what a given 'cycle' naturally contains. Unlike a nature goddess, she could not 'tweak' crops to be extra fruitful or more fertile or more potent. Unlike a life goddess, she can only wind back the cycle of death and bring a dead person back to a point they were at during the cycle in their life before dying....or otherwise push the soul into a cycle of rebirth to get a new body and be born again. But she cannot simply infuse the dead body with life energies, or necromancy it from the dead as a skelly-boi, or so forth.
To a devastated landscape she can return it to a past fruitful and whole state here in current times, but she cannot control the weather to ensure the land will prosper or be extra fertile or so forth. But if a place has always and forever been devastated desert sands then she can't really do anything unless it was somehow part of an ocean in primordial times (which would mean suddenly an ocean within a desert out of the blue if she used her powers to revert to that).
If she tries to end a cycle of maddening war going on in an area, it might accelerate the damage or cut things off abruptly but will bring peace about quicker. However, if those involved still want to make war her power doesn't stop them from doing so. Etc.
~Saucer Comments~
1. When affecting areas or whole wars, the powers affect more than just the land, but interpersonal relations which may stretch far beyond the land. And that's just the mortal-centric view: this world is animist, and trees, flowers and rocks could all potentially have relation networks that span the continent.
I doubt anyone will actually RP a rock or a tree, though, so I won't force you to take that into account, but still.
2. What makes an event cyclical is that it repeats itself, no matter what you do, really, be it reincarnation, the seasons, Chinese dynasties, whatever. I am hesitant to view learning a skill, for example, as a cyclical concept, or to tie cycles too closely to time, because time, no matter how circular a phenomenon, seems to always be that which moves forward. Time never repeats itself; events in time do. If you actually go for the Time domain, of course, the two won't be mutually exclusive, so when that is achieved, you can disregard that comment.
She cannot, however, do things outside of what a given 'cycle' naturally contains. Unlike a nature goddess, she could not 'tweak' crops to be extra fruitful or more fertile or more potent. Unlike a life goddess, she can only wind back the cycle of death and bring a dead person back to a point they were at during the cycle in their life before dying....or otherwise push the soul into a cycle of rebirth to get a new body and be born again. But she cannot simply infuse the dead body with life energies, or necromancy it from the dead as a skelly-boi, or so forth.
To a devastated landscape she can return it to a past fruitful and whole state here in current times, but she cannot control the weather to ensure the land will prosper or be extra fertile or so forth. But if a place has always and forever been devastated desert sands then she can't really do anything unless it was somehow part of an ocean in primordial times (which would mean suddenly an ocean within a desert out of the blue if she used her powers to revert to that).
If she tries to end a cycle of maddening war going on in an area, it might accelerate the damage or cut things off abruptly but will bring peace about quicker. However, if those involved still want to make war her power doesn't stop them from doing so. Etc.
~Saucer Comments~
1. When affecting areas or whole wars, the powers affect more than just the land, but interpersonal relations which may stretch far beyond the land. And that's just the mortal-centric view: this world is animist, and trees, flowers and rocks could all potentially have relation networks that span the continent.
I doubt anyone will actually RP a rock or a tree, though, so I won't force you to take that into account, but still.
2. What makes an event cyclical is that it repeats itself, no matter what you do, really, be it reincarnation, the seasons, Chinese dynasties, whatever. I am hesitant to view learning a skill, for example, as a cyclical concept, or to tie cycles too closely to time, because time, no matter how circular a phenomenon, seems to always be that which moves forward. Time never repeats itself; events in time do. If you actually go for the Time domain, of course, the two won't be mutually exclusive, so when that is achieved, you can disregard that comment.
Myth
(One of potentially more, just need to think of more over time is all.)
In a humble rural town far, far away, the farmers had long plied their trade underneath the gaze of the gods. They had been humble as their priest demanded, they had been devout as their families had raised them to be, and all seemed to be right with the world. None knew what was to come, the era of doom that was to wash over like a tidal wave....and indeed, when the world began to burn they were left alone and with nothing but despair.
The old gods did not answer their calls and pleas and cries for help.
The clergy disappeared or succumbed to the flames.
The fields were choked by monstrous beasts emerging from the woods, slaughtering cattle and anyone else foolish enough to be outside when they emerged.
Plagues ravaged the humble town, tearing apart families that had long sown the soil and reaped the harvests over untold generations.
Every day was a waking nightmare they were forced to wade through, and so it was for their children and children's children after them. Some spoke as if the world was going to end, abandoning all and leaving, and yet the people desperately sought salvation in any form they could find it. They prayed and toiled, cursed and screamed, anything that some higher power might take pity upon them and save them from their hell.
...And so it was the goddess would ultimately in that town descend the night of one brilliant harvest moon, bright and reddish-orange like the great fires themselves. From sleep were the farmers awoken, being stirred from their restless slumber by a voice as gentle as the night breeze. Outside of their homes they gathered, some hiding in fear and others rushing forward to see what the matter was. Into the town square the majority would come, even as the one who had called them was manifested before their very eyes.
The beasts fled from before her as they had from none else, and yet her appearance gave off a gentle glow that brought the people's hearts to comfort.
But who was this divine figure, who had so brazenly appeared before them? Why had she called them?
"Be not afraid, oh children of the land, for your prayers have finally been heard after all this time.
Be not frightened of the desolation and pain about you, for at this time your sufferings and patience over so long will be at long last rewarded.
I am she who keeps the forces of the world turning. I am the end and the beginning, the beginning and the end.
I am Arira, Goddess of Cycles."
Some questioned her words, some simply stood in awe, others turned away, and more so began to beg and plead upon their knees before her for relief. To each she lent her ear, and to many she gave answer.
In the end, she made them all a promise. They would wake to find their livestock reborn, their fields growing with plenty, their dying finally passed on in peace, and their children healthy and growing. They would be helped to bring an end to the cycle of monsters harassing them in turn, and her first great Prophet would come to them. "So it would be," the goddess said, "and so it shall be done." She would then vanish in a brilliant explosion of light...and immediately after the people would finally awaken from this great vision they had all shared.
It was morning now, and upon all leaving their homes and investigating their loved ones and so forth the people would thusly find her words to be true. The fields, once devastated, had been cycled back to a healthy and growing state full of crops. Their livestock, many once dead from famine and monster attacks, were given rebirth and were now plump and happy and mighty in number. The dying that had been long suffering from disease or ailment were found smiling, gently at peace and having passed on. Their children were too vibrant, full of life, and any of them with maladies found the cycle of those maladies ended in their bodies. It was a grand miracle, a saving grace, something beyond words that those in the town could only look upon in awe and reverence.
And oh, how they did praise that day!
On the morrow her Prophet would arrive, humble and yet in service, donning a simple cloak and yet bringing with him years of battle-hardened experience and the word of his patron Goddess. Yea he would direct them to build a center of worship to Arira in her name, and so would be built the first, grandest, and greatest of her temples to rise from the ground and be built to withstand the test of time. To commemorate the mighty vision they had all shared, they would celebrate her honors every harvest moon and give thanks for her helping them.
Yet as also promised, the great Prophet would begin to organize some among them and teach them the ways to fight and hunt the monsters and disasters that plagued their land. His expertise from years and years of battle served the people well, teaching them and guiding them to wield shot and sword and spear and so forth to protect the land and protect their own. These "Hunters of the Cycle", as they so took on the name of, would dedicate themselves to the Goddess, gain her blessing for and maintain it if they kept their creed, and become a major force to help end the old cycle of terror that had gripped their homeland.
The old gods did not answer their calls and pleas and cries for help.
The clergy disappeared or succumbed to the flames.
The fields were choked by monstrous beasts emerging from the woods, slaughtering cattle and anyone else foolish enough to be outside when they emerged.
Plagues ravaged the humble town, tearing apart families that had long sown the soil and reaped the harvests over untold generations.
Every day was a waking nightmare they were forced to wade through, and so it was for their children and children's children after them. Some spoke as if the world was going to end, abandoning all and leaving, and yet the people desperately sought salvation in any form they could find it. They prayed and toiled, cursed and screamed, anything that some higher power might take pity upon them and save them from their hell.
...And so it was the goddess would ultimately in that town descend the night of one brilliant harvest moon, bright and reddish-orange like the great fires themselves. From sleep were the farmers awoken, being stirred from their restless slumber by a voice as gentle as the night breeze. Outside of their homes they gathered, some hiding in fear and others rushing forward to see what the matter was. Into the town square the majority would come, even as the one who had called them was manifested before their very eyes.
The beasts fled from before her as they had from none else, and yet her appearance gave off a gentle glow that brought the people's hearts to comfort.
But who was this divine figure, who had so brazenly appeared before them? Why had she called them?
"Be not afraid, oh children of the land, for your prayers have finally been heard after all this time.
Be not frightened of the desolation and pain about you, for at this time your sufferings and patience over so long will be at long last rewarded.
I am she who keeps the forces of the world turning. I am the end and the beginning, the beginning and the end.
I am Arira, Goddess of Cycles."
Some questioned her words, some simply stood in awe, others turned away, and more so began to beg and plead upon their knees before her for relief. To each she lent her ear, and to many she gave answer.
In the end, she made them all a promise. They would wake to find their livestock reborn, their fields growing with plenty, their dying finally passed on in peace, and their children healthy and growing. They would be helped to bring an end to the cycle of monsters harassing them in turn, and her first great Prophet would come to them. "So it would be," the goddess said, "and so it shall be done." She would then vanish in a brilliant explosion of light...and immediately after the people would finally awaken from this great vision they had all shared.
It was morning now, and upon all leaving their homes and investigating their loved ones and so forth the people would thusly find her words to be true. The fields, once devastated, had been cycled back to a healthy and growing state full of crops. Their livestock, many once dead from famine and monster attacks, were given rebirth and were now plump and happy and mighty in number. The dying that had been long suffering from disease or ailment were found smiling, gently at peace and having passed on. Their children were too vibrant, full of life, and any of them with maladies found the cycle of those maladies ended in their bodies. It was a grand miracle, a saving grace, something beyond words that those in the town could only look upon in awe and reverence.
And oh, how they did praise that day!
On the morrow her Prophet would arrive, humble and yet in service, donning a simple cloak and yet bringing with him years of battle-hardened experience and the word of his patron Goddess. Yea he would direct them to build a center of worship to Arira in her name, and so would be built the first, grandest, and greatest of her temples to rise from the ground and be built to withstand the test of time. To commemorate the mighty vision they had all shared, they would celebrate her honors every harvest moon and give thanks for her helping them.
Yet as also promised, the great Prophet would begin to organize some among them and teach them the ways to fight and hunt the monsters and disasters that plagued their land. His expertise from years and years of battle served the people well, teaching them and guiding them to wield shot and sword and spear and so forth to protect the land and protect their own. These "Hunters of the Cycle", as they so took on the name of, would dedicate themselves to the Goddess, gain her blessing for and maintain it if they kept their creed, and become a major force to help end the old cycle of terror that had gripped their homeland.
Base Form
“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”
(Note: She is 5'6" tall.)
Angry Form
(Very very rare to see normally...not a good sign at all if you do ever see it though.)
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”
True Form
“That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.”
Musical Theme
~Base Form~
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgVuQ_Fbs5g
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9k1F3PjY948
~Angry Form~
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7RzA_Oomra8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rdt5XNvPkc
~True Form~
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdxaUJ9J_ew
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cbwq8ev-EXA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qFqpMa3DyA
Muttonhawk Let Slip the Corgis of War
Member
Seen
12 hrs ago
Kor, Harmony
...Kor Re Pa Ve Laak Kor Re Pa Ve Laak Kor Re Pa Ve Laak...
Names: Kor, The Nadir, Kor Re Pa Ve Laak, The Earth Mantra, The Core
Domain: Harmony
Kor creates equilibrium. Every phenomenon that is met upon her, spiritual, mental, and physical, is countered by its opposite. This at once leaves each space around Kor at a collapsing spiral of peace while rendering her relatively passive compared to other gods. Her peers may aggress or consume, but she is powerless to do either beyond the base abilities of a deity.
As Kor has chosen to remain on the underside of the world, she repels All-In-The-Darkness-Below as it emanates from the remains of Galbar. This repulsion forms such a powerful acceleration in the opposite direction as to manifest gravity on the world above. This holds all things on the world down.
However, the gravitational acceleration is not the only effect of Kor's repulsion. If one meditates and chooses to listen, they can hear the calming rebuttal that Kor chants against All-In-The-Darkness-Below. This is a calming mantra that slowly repeats the words Kor Re Pa Ve Laak. The true power of this mantra is not the words themselves. It is the space between the words. To notice them and to feel oneself grounded to the earth below (to feel the gravity Kor induces) temporarily brings peace to one's spirit.
Myth:
Base Form: Kor's base form depends heavily on her surrounding environment, but her abode being what it is leaves little else in options for her except the form she assumes at the underside of the world. Kor takes the form of a titanic metal-and-carbon naked human shape with no hair, a tall head, a torso of no remarkable shape, two emaciated legs fused together below her and six long arms sprouting from her shoulders. These arms stretch up and gently hold the underside aloft by the extremities where hands would normally be. She has instead of hands writhing swarms of eyeless segmented metallic serpents that merge onto the underside's earth like inverted mountains of glinting insects at the end of each arm. These snakes repair holes in the underside with whatever material is available.
Kor's face does not express any strain at this ceaseless duty. Her dull grey eyes slowly blink observing the quiet universe around her, betraying none of her capacity for alertness should a new being come to visit.
True Form: To see Kor's true form is to see one's exact opposite reflected before them within an environment exactly opposite to the one they stand in. A ruthless tyrant in charge of a cowed and clean kingdom would see a peaceful yet deprived beggar happy to sit in a world of chaos and destruction. Conversely, a hero on a battlefield would see a villainous demon passively standing in a peaceful garden.
The experience can be confronting, but whatever stirring in one's mind to make sense of the sight is buffered by a universal feeling of intimate peace, like pressing one's forehead against the forehead of a loving partner in a quiet place. It brings an awareness of the rivers of cause and effect flowing all around, and yet one is safe and calm in the moment, free from all anxiety.
When she is in her true form, Kor is the only one who sees only herself where she already is.
Musical Theme: KISNOU - Tale of a man who whispered to flowers
...Kor Re Pa Ve Laak Kor Re Pa Ve Laak Kor Re Pa Ve Laak...
Names: Kor, The Nadir, Kor Re Pa Ve Laak, The Earth Mantra, The Core
Domain: Harmony
Kor creates equilibrium. Every phenomenon that is met upon her, spiritual, mental, and physical, is countered by its opposite. This at once leaves each space around Kor at a collapsing spiral of peace while rendering her relatively passive compared to other gods. Her peers may aggress or consume, but she is powerless to do either beyond the base abilities of a deity.
As Kor has chosen to remain on the underside of the world, she repels All-In-The-Darkness-Below as it emanates from the remains of Galbar. This repulsion forms such a powerful acceleration in the opposite direction as to manifest gravity on the world above. This holds all things on the world down.
However, the gravitational acceleration is not the only effect of Kor's repulsion. If one meditates and chooses to listen, they can hear the calming rebuttal that Kor chants against All-In-The-Darkness-Below. This is a calming mantra that slowly repeats the words Kor Re Pa Ve Laak. The true power of this mantra is not the words themselves. It is the space between the words. To notice them and to feel oneself grounded to the earth below (to feel the gravity Kor induces) temporarily brings peace to one's spirit.
Myth:
There were no old men there. No hermits or grandparents or other fonts of wisdom. A camp for soldiers was no place for those that could not stand and fight. The men here were young, eager, energetic, and their nerves could not stop firing in their cores. Battle could come at any time. The sound of gunfire and clashing steel was as much at home here in drills as it was amongst its partnered screams of pain on the battlefield.
But that encampment was overseen by a general thought to not be fully of this world. He was human, but he did not behave like a young soldier. Rounds flew around him and dirt kicked into his eye, but he stood unflinching, hands clasped behind his back. He never showed his fear. But he was not a stone; he smiled, he sympathised, and spoke to the hearts of his subordinates. And his stability allowed him to pursue tactics that countered the most certain of defeats.
When his officers asked in candid moments how this general stood unshakable, he planted both boots solid on the ground and closed his eyes, as if listening.
"Do you ever notice," the general responded to them, "just how deep the earth is? Do you ever feel yourself pressed against it, drinking away the tightness in your chest? At any time, we could fall, and we can be certain the ground is beneath us. We can never fall further."
The general refused to give any less cryptic an answer, claiming he did not have the skill with words to do so. All the same, his behaviour gave off an air of invincibility which granted a morale unmatched amongst his cohort.
But he did die. One battle's morning, an arquebus ball pierced his heart and broke through the back of his ribs on the way out. He fell upon the ground directly on his back. He closed his eyes where he lay and smiled, listening. His soul left his body in such peace that his psychopomp stood waiting a while, thinking he was just asleep. Hearing of this manner of death, his soldiers knew their leader had remained unshaken to the end. They went on to win the battle.
This general, though his name is lost to history, was not the first to hear the Earth Mantra. He was merely the first to let the world know.
But that encampment was overseen by a general thought to not be fully of this world. He was human, but he did not behave like a young soldier. Rounds flew around him and dirt kicked into his eye, but he stood unflinching, hands clasped behind his back. He never showed his fear. But he was not a stone; he smiled, he sympathised, and spoke to the hearts of his subordinates. And his stability allowed him to pursue tactics that countered the most certain of defeats.
When his officers asked in candid moments how this general stood unshakable, he planted both boots solid on the ground and closed his eyes, as if listening.
"Do you ever notice," the general responded to them, "just how deep the earth is? Do you ever feel yourself pressed against it, drinking away the tightness in your chest? At any time, we could fall, and we can be certain the ground is beneath us. We can never fall further."
The general refused to give any less cryptic an answer, claiming he did not have the skill with words to do so. All the same, his behaviour gave off an air of invincibility which granted a morale unmatched amongst his cohort.
But he did die. One battle's morning, an arquebus ball pierced his heart and broke through the back of his ribs on the way out. He fell upon the ground directly on his back. He closed his eyes where he lay and smiled, listening. His soul left his body in such peace that his psychopomp stood waiting a while, thinking he was just asleep. Hearing of this manner of death, his soldiers knew their leader had remained unshaken to the end. They went on to win the battle.
This general, though his name is lost to history, was not the first to hear the Earth Mantra. He was merely the first to let the world know.
Base Form: Kor's base form depends heavily on her surrounding environment, but her abode being what it is leaves little else in options for her except the form she assumes at the underside of the world. Kor takes the form of a titanic metal-and-carbon naked human shape with no hair, a tall head, a torso of no remarkable shape, two emaciated legs fused together below her and six long arms sprouting from her shoulders. These arms stretch up and gently hold the underside aloft by the extremities where hands would normally be. She has instead of hands writhing swarms of eyeless segmented metallic serpents that merge onto the underside's earth like inverted mountains of glinting insects at the end of each arm. These snakes repair holes in the underside with whatever material is available.
Kor's face does not express any strain at this ceaseless duty. Her dull grey eyes slowly blink observing the quiet universe around her, betraying none of her capacity for alertness should a new being come to visit.
True Form: To see Kor's true form is to see one's exact opposite reflected before them within an environment exactly opposite to the one they stand in. A ruthless tyrant in charge of a cowed and clean kingdom would see a peaceful yet deprived beggar happy to sit in a world of chaos and destruction. Conversely, a hero on a battlefield would see a villainous demon passively standing in a peaceful garden.
The experience can be confronting, but whatever stirring in one's mind to make sense of the sight is buffered by a universal feeling of intimate peace, like pressing one's forehead against the forehead of a loving partner in a quiet place. It brings an awareness of the rivers of cause and effect flowing all around, and yet one is safe and calm in the moment, free from all anxiety.
When she is in her true form, Kor is the only one who sees only herself where she already is.
Musical Theme: KISNOU - Tale of a man who whispered to flowers
yoshua171 The Loremaster
Member
Seen
12 hrs ago
The Primal | The Great Presence | Moniker | The Formless Flesh | The UnboundThe Domain of FormThe primordial ooze from which life once sprung, the Domain of Form is just as one might think: that which presides over all living shapes. It is the domain of flesh, and blood, and bone. It is the flexing of muscles, the products of glands, the vessel for consciousness, and the foundation of all life. Sa'a Malath Kaal is both the quintessential source of primal physicality and the legacy of that which coalesced from the remnants of the decaying cosmos and its forgotten gods. With this power he can mold the shape of all that lives so long as from substance it was wrought. From this primordial ooze a vital essence erupts, which by his will arises as beings of great variance in form, size, or function. However only the forms that living, evolving flesh might take can be rendered from this essence and so is the Deity of Form bound by its own essential nature.
Yet as the Domain of Form--as understood by the deific intellect of the Great Presence--begets shape and function, so too does it dictate evolution and change. It is the shifting of the body from parent to child and the gift of metamorphosis. Similarly, it is the curse of deserved (but oft unwanted) transmutation of limb or spine or fang. Just as from that wellspring did all forms once coalesce, so too may it transform them.The Domain of Form is concerned, mechanically, with all things biological with a particular focus on the process of metamorphosis and/or evolution. The domain may be used to influence the shape, size, and function of organisms, as well as to outright create such. It is limited by its nature as it cannot create non-biological entities though it has the capacity to interface with them by creating organic structures that can interact with said forces or beings.PersonaA form in flux, a mind to match, Malath Kaal is an entity engrossed in its own nature, in the endless possibilities of Form, concerned with life (but not worried by it). He is a being interested in balance and imbalance, predation and prey—survival and alteration and change. The Great Presence, the Formless Flesh, the Unbent, the Primal is intrigued by mortalkind, be it their minds, the forms, or even those instinct-driven beasts that live in the wild--or the many florae they devour.
So say his edicts: Living is essential; Metamorphosis divine.-- Myth --
The Tale of Tsa MerekA long journey was behind him for it had been an arduous trek from his homeland across rivers, around lakes, and through treacherous plains filled with predators in a world that was not kind to those few left to inhabit it. It had been after months that he'd finally stood before the great mountain that his people revered, the place known as the Black Maw. From afar it had seemed almost normal, though vastly greater in size than its many peers which stretched from east to west to either side of the monolithic peak. Now however, from so close, Tsa Merek beheld the truth.
Before him opened a perfect parabola, an arch, a gateway beyond which light seemed not to pass. Above it was the mountain, its peak stretching past clouds and into the blue skein of the heavens. Unlike its slate grey relatives with their reddened cliffs and white snow-capped peaks, the entirety of this mountain seemed as if it had been wrought from the night sky, but bereft of stars. It was utterly black from base to tip, and had it not been midday Merek might have missed the deeper darkness of its entrance.
To look upon it was to glimpse the threshold between the mortal world and the divine, it was to peer into an unknown beyond which one could not fathom the contents of the world. Merek swallowed hard, feeling bile travel down his throat, going back from where it had risen. The sensation reminded him of the stories their shaman had told him of the Primal's wrath.
"To gain the Ire of the Unbound God is to open oneself to the fullness of its attention. For his gaze to fall upon you is to feel the writhing of your flesh as it is twisted against your will. Malath will change you without care, its intentions beyond any mortal's ability to comprehend. Know this, Tsa Merek, to pass beyond the threshold of the Black Maw is to step into the domain of that god. To stand in the Primal's abode is to invite his judgment. Step lightly and speak with only truth and conviction. Do not lie, Merek. Do not lie, for to do so is to invite the wrath of eons into your body."
They were words he could not have forgotten. Even when his memory had begun to fail him he had repeated them, he had scratched them into stone, then into his flesh. They were engraved upon his chest. Not so he could read them, but so he knew the meaning was writ upon his being.
He took a breath and stepped beyond the threshold of the Maw; what awaited him was silence, stillness, and an impossible abyss. The ground was cold and level, perfectly smooth, but as he continued forwards, reeling in the dark, it warmed beneath his feet. Slowly it seemed almost to come alive as a gentle thrumming pulse beat a soothing rhythm against his soles. He grit his teeth and barely breathed, terrified by the black. He faltered, glancing back only to find that no exit remained behind him. Where before the threshold once had stood, there was only endless black, as with every other direction.
Turning back around, he remained still, unable to move. He was terrified, moreso than he had imagined he would be. In that moment he thought--no, he was certain--that he was going to die. Then the silence broke and the mountain shook as the Black Maw--Se'raa Kelet--spoke.
"Tsa Merek. Seeker, Father, Adherent," the voice said, shaking his bones with its vibration. The darkness changed, but Merek could not decide how, for no light had entered the god's domain. Unsure what else to do, the man moved slowly to his knees, prostrating himself before the force he had come there to entreat.
"Please," Tsa Merek said, his voice feeling tinny and small, his ears still ringing from the thunder of the Maw. For a time there was no response, in fact no sound at all, and then something slipped against him, fluttering across the cloth of his back. He shuddered as--moments later--the sound of something huge dragging lithely across smooth stone emanated from behind him.
Slowly more sounds faded into his awareness, each accompanied by the churning of the air as if something unfathomably vast was moving through the chamber.
"Seeker of protection, O' ye of tested faith," began the low drone of that titanic voice, its sound sonorous and primal. "Mah Lia you have abandoned, left behind in your home of earth. Your people did you depart, seeking out divines with which to consort. Seeking aid, seeking miracles unearned."
Though he could not see, Merek's eyes widened at each utterance of the voice, his heart growing panicked and frantic in its rhythm.
"Begging you kneel before me, your convictions frail as grass or leaves or silt."
Directly before him something struck the stone. It did not crack, but the sheer force of the thing pushed him back as wind blasted from its point of contact. Curling in on himself as he recovered, Tsa Merek peered desperately into the dark, seeking any sign of hope.
"Please," he whimpered, terror in his tone, "...I came only for my people, to save them from famine and from drought."
The sounds stopped and stillness returned.
The shadows unfurled and from them emerged a symbol. Merek gasped.
The Eye of Malath had opened before him and briefly beyond its glowing gaze the man had glimpsed a vessel of monolithic size. It coiled and writhed and twisted through the chamber, its many limbs pressed against the walls and floor. Yet, he had caught only the barest image of the Deity of Form, seen only a silhouette frozen in two moments before the light became a blinding brightness that shook his mind and body both.
"Seeker. Father. Faithful child, protector of the weak," proclaimed the Eye.
Merek did not hear the words, he felt them in his bones. He heard them with his flesh, they tingled across his skin and rippled in waves throughout his mind and every neuron in his form. The light grew and its glow suffused him, filled him, lifted him from the ground. He opened his mouth, but could not scream or speak or cry. His body shook, but not from fear, no; it was like every iota of his being was vibrating with the power of that deific entity before him. Yet, something was wrong, deeply wrong, for his mind--his awareness of himself--faded as the power grew in intensity and size.
'No!' his mind screamed out, but there came no response and soon the man-who-was-not-a-man, who had once been Merek, had forgotten his distress and even why he might have felt it.
For many days after he wandered the land, trekking across the wilderness, through storm and flame and snow, until finally, he came upon a village. Red-leaved trees and buried houses which perhaps once were carved from stone. A sense of familiarity came upon him and with it came the light. Kindled within him, it grew and grew...and grew. No, it was he who changed as the light added to his bulk even moreso than before. Once more he forgot his former shape, becoming sluggish in his expanse. In time, the sweat from his many glands fed the earth around what the man Merek had once known as his home. Plants grew and the people--once his family and his friends--took of his flesh to feed upon.
As they rose from the darkness of their homes and cast aside the misery of starvation a feeling came upon the man who had a beast become; Satisfaction.VisageThe PrimalFormless, yet possessed of all that flesh might birth, the True Form of Malath Kaal is one both of endless metamorphosis and imperceptible stability. Ever-shrouded by a blanket of midnight fog, attempting to behold the Great Presence in its entirety is an impossibility. Instead, one catches only glimpses, hears only the sounds of claws grinding, flesh slithering, and limbs skittering over surfaces. Eyes and lengths of winding viscera and bone, skin or muscle are seen, but never all at once. Utterly an enigma, the shape of this God of Form is its own contradiction for while it is ever-changing, it too is utterly unchanged, remaining always in a static form whose various aspects cross between the perceptible and the unseen at the slightest whim or provocation--or so one might theorize.The Eye of MalathImage courtesy of the amazingly skilled CorrosiveCherri!
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The Primal simplified, the Eye of Malath is a symbol of variable size, color, and luminosity that can appear before those upon which the Great Presence’s attention falls. While not precisely a form in the truest sense, it is instead a non-physical projection of the god’s awareness, appearing only where its awareness is most focused. This state of being is possessed of strange properties, as it is unburdened by the limitations of flesh and of anonymity that the True Form imposes upon the Primal. Thus, the Eye can pass beyond barriers, solid or energetic, or even interpose itself upon the forms of entities less than divine. Though all forms of Malath have the capacity to invoke drastic and incredible changes upon the vessels of living things, it is the Eye that can do so with no more than the faintest touch from the strange illumination it emits.
Name: Koine
Domain: Business
There is much to learn about business. Whether dealing with high-class society or the roughest of ruffians, etiquette is very important, as learning how to interact with others increases your chances for success at a business opportunity. Lead your would-be consumers with the right suggestions and recommendations to convince them that your products are right for them. By using the right etiquette with the right people, you can create a reputation and prove your business is trustworthy. After all, people will not do business with you if there is no trust. Finally, all businesses start on an idea. You must know what the public is willing to spend their money on, and you must be ahead of the competition if you wish to succeed. Because at the end of the day, you need to make a profit, and no business can sustain itself without generating profit.
Koine herself possesses a myriad of facades to work with, and will choose whoever is best suited to converse with others. She also possesses the ability to detect the potential profitability and reputability of those in her presence. Finally, she can also influence others to be more inclined to accept business proposals, though she can only influence what is already there. If people aren't interested even after trying to convince them, then there is nothing she can do.
Themes:
Domain: Business
There is much to learn about business. Whether dealing with high-class society or the roughest of ruffians, etiquette is very important, as learning how to interact with others increases your chances for success at a business opportunity. Lead your would-be consumers with the right suggestions and recommendations to convince them that your products are right for them. By using the right etiquette with the right people, you can create a reputation and prove your business is trustworthy. After all, people will not do business with you if there is no trust. Finally, all businesses start on an idea. You must know what the public is willing to spend their money on, and you must be ahead of the competition if you wish to succeed. Because at the end of the day, you need to make a profit, and no business can sustain itself without generating profit.
Koine herself possesses a myriad of facades to work with, and will choose whoever is best suited to converse with others. She also possesses the ability to detect the potential profitability and reputability of those in her presence. Finally, she can also influence others to be more inclined to accept business proposals, though she can only influence what is already there. If people aren't interested even after trying to convince them, then there is nothing she can do.
Another quiet day in the shop. For some people, that might be a blessing, but for me, it's a curse. Business has been slow lately, and I don't know why. I've tried adding new paintings and hiring an extra person to attract more people, but no one seems interested. I'll be hitting the red soon, and I'd rather keep my shop open. But how?
A small jingle sounded from the bell as the door opened. Turning my head towards the door, I saw a beautiful woman come in, walking gracefully toward the pub table and taking a seat. "Welcome, ma'am, what would you like to order?"
"I'll have the tuna and a small amount of ale, please." "Coming right up!" I was glad to finally have a customer again, and hopefully she wouldn't be the last. As I prepared the ingredients, she looked around the restaurant. Probably thinking it was a sad place, and with no other customers, I was willing to agree. I quickly whipped up her meal and served it to her. "Your tuna and ale, ma'am." She only took small bites, and sipped the ale sparingly as she quietly ate. I had just turned away to clean up my work station when she said, "This is a nice place."
"Hmm?" "A good location, with plenty of foot traffic. And the decor is pleasing to the eye. It's not bad." "Um, th-thank you-" "I didn't say it was good, though. Only adequate, and now I see why there's no one else here." "Hey, where do you get off-"
"Thank you for the meal," she said, placing a few coins on the table before standing up. I looked at her now empty dish and cup, wondering how she finished so quickly. As she let, she said, "Invest in some shellfish for appetizers, and some eels. They're coming into season soon. Lager would be great too. Pairs well with your seafood menu." "Hey, wait! Who are you?" She simply smiled and said, "Pleasure doing business with you," before leaving out the entrance.
She was a strange woman, but maybe she had something. I followed her advice, perfecting the dishes I could create. For some reason, after she left, I've been receiving a flood of customers ever since. They also loved the changes to the menu, and wouldn't stop praising it every time. I guess I owed her a debt, having saved my shop with just a few words. A glint of light reflecting off a coin caught my eye, and I reached over to pick it up. Come to think of it, the woman's face did resemble the one on the coin... nah, couldn't be. Could it?
A small jingle sounded from the bell as the door opened. Turning my head towards the door, I saw a beautiful woman come in, walking gracefully toward the pub table and taking a seat. "Welcome, ma'am, what would you like to order?"
"I'll have the tuna and a small amount of ale, please." "Coming right up!" I was glad to finally have a customer again, and hopefully she wouldn't be the last. As I prepared the ingredients, she looked around the restaurant. Probably thinking it was a sad place, and with no other customers, I was willing to agree. I quickly whipped up her meal and served it to her. "Your tuna and ale, ma'am." She only took small bites, and sipped the ale sparingly as she quietly ate. I had just turned away to clean up my work station when she said, "This is a nice place."
"Hmm?" "A good location, with plenty of foot traffic. And the decor is pleasing to the eye. It's not bad." "Um, th-thank you-" "I didn't say it was good, though. Only adequate, and now I see why there's no one else here." "Hey, where do you get off-"
"Thank you for the meal," she said, placing a few coins on the table before standing up. I looked at her now empty dish and cup, wondering how she finished so quickly. As she let, she said, "Invest in some shellfish for appetizers, and some eels. They're coming into season soon. Lager would be great too. Pairs well with your seafood menu." "Hey, wait! Who are you?" She simply smiled and said, "Pleasure doing business with you," before leaving out the entrance.
She was a strange woman, but maybe she had something. I followed her advice, perfecting the dishes I could create. For some reason, after she left, I've been receiving a flood of customers ever since. They also loved the changes to the menu, and wouldn't stop praising it every time. I guess I owed her a debt, having saved my shop with just a few words. A glint of light reflecting off a coin caught my eye, and I reached over to pick it up. Come to think of it, the woman's face did resemble the one on the coin... nah, couldn't be. Could it?
Her hair is platinum blonde and her skin is peachy. Her eyes are sapphire-colored with yellow irises, and she has pearly-white teeth for a perfect smile. Her left hand is adorned with 5 silver rings, each fitted with a different gem: sapphire, ruby, emerald, amethyst, and padparadscha, from thumb to pinky in that order. Her thin, rectangle-shaped glasses have a dark silver frame and fitted with quartz glass lenses.
Koine still remains humanoid, but her exact appearance varies based on one's intentions and business practices.
Koine appears similar to her base, except her body appears to be made out of gold and various gems. Her eyes are tiny star sapphires, while her long, wavy hair is made of strands of white gold. Even her lips are composed of rose gold, and her teeth have become actual pearls. Her nails, cut to perfection, are pure diamond.
To people that harbor malicious intentions or perform unethical business practices, Koine's body will also take on a dark-reddish tone. Her clothing will be tattered, and her body will also appear to be splattered with blood, or depending on the specific race, their equivalent of it.
Themes:
And she, Drakhoreya though she be, killed them all. Devoured them all.
Name: Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut. Also: 'Tonta,' 'Nino,' 'Tuts.'
Aliases: The Drakhoreya [lit. The Drakhorey Mother]; The Drakhoreyka [lit. The Drakhorey Devourer]
Domain: Life.
Life Defined.
To be alive is to be ensouled - all that has a soul or spirit is alive, and all that is bereft of such is not. Life allows for the well-observed condition distinguishing things like animals and plants from inorganic matter or natural phenomena - this includes the capacity for growth, reproduction, functional activity, and continual change preceding 'death'. Though having a soul will not necessitate the manifestation of physical life, physical life is not possible without a soul. Since life, thus defined, is intrinsically ethereal, it can exist without being tied to physical matter - spirits, ghosts, and other immaterial entities are entirely valid life forms. Such things are not ensouled, they are soul. We therefore find that death - true death that is - only occurs with the destruction of the soul; the ebb and flow of physical life is peripheral. As all souls are by nature sapient, even those of non-sapient creatures, direct spiritual communication with souls is entirely possible for those learned in such magicks.
The Power of Life.
The powers of this Life Domain enable the god in question to freely create or nourish things that have the quality of life, unlimited in this regard by anything short of its imagination. Power over Life also includes the capacity to deny a creature of life or to strip a particular place of it - this is a simple process of desouling a particular entity or place. Life is different from health; something can be alive but in extremely poor physical health. However, the presence of souls is also critical for life and may prevent ailments caused by a lack of soul - if the winds lose their souls then they may stop blowing, if the water loses its souls it may stop flowing or being beneficial to other life forms, if plants lose their souls they may wilt and die, and similarly when sentient species lose their souls. Thus, with the ability to regulate, communicate with, and control souls, this Life Domain enables one to create new, and nourish existing, life forms.
To be alive is to be ensouled - all that has a soul or spirit is alive, and all that is bereft of such is not. Life allows for the well-observed condition distinguishing things like animals and plants from inorganic matter or natural phenomena - this includes the capacity for growth, reproduction, functional activity, and continual change preceding 'death'. Though having a soul will not necessitate the manifestation of physical life, physical life is not possible without a soul. Since life, thus defined, is intrinsically ethereal, it can exist without being tied to physical matter - spirits, ghosts, and other immaterial entities are entirely valid life forms. Such things are not ensouled, they are soul. We therefore find that death - true death that is - only occurs with the destruction of the soul; the ebb and flow of physical life is peripheral. As all souls are by nature sapient, even those of non-sapient creatures, direct spiritual communication with souls is entirely possible for those learned in such magicks.
The Power of Life.
The powers of this Life Domain enable the god in question to freely create or nourish things that have the quality of life, unlimited in this regard by anything short of its imagination. Power over Life also includes the capacity to deny a creature of life or to strip a particular place of it - this is a simple process of desouling a particular entity or place. Life is different from health; something can be alive but in extremely poor physical health. However, the presence of souls is also critical for life and may prevent ailments caused by a lack of soul - if the winds lose their souls then they may stop blowing, if the water loses its souls it may stop flowing or being beneficial to other life forms, if plants lose their souls they may wilt and die, and similarly when sentient species lose their souls. Thus, with the ability to regulate, communicate with, and control souls, this Life Domain enables one to create new, and nourish existing, life forms.
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral.
Myth:
Centuries after the fact, when Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut finally arrived to kill him, Hylsek Adech was to recall with greater lucidity than ever before how the terrible race of drakhorey and their progenitor came into the world. Everything was coming to an end around then and (even though Hylsek Adech had then not yet been birthed) he knew that Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut had come in a great fit of inexplicable rage - as though she had been torn away from something very important and now sought to loose her wrath on the distraction that entrapped her. Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut was, therefore, followed very shortly by one hundred thousand burning meteors that lit up the darkening heavens of Galbar's fragment; it was an act of cosmic creation willed at the moment of Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut's own genesis. One could say that she was created creating. Perhaps it was the way Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut was then screaming (for she came screaming), or perhaps it was the inexplicable fury in the great sonance, but it was in that moment of their inception that Hylsek Adech and his drakhorey kin realised - with as great a lucidity as only Hylsek Adech was to experience again many centuries later - that Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut was the only thing in the world they would know to fear.
As the drakhorey broke free of the burning meteors, and as they came into being out of those hurtling isles of magma, the underworlder critters who had risen with rapacious hunger to glut themselves on the soft, yielding meat of the overworlders allowed themselves a pause and a heavenward gaze. They looked at the sky as they had enviously glanced of the overworld in prior times when it was denied them. And if they had not heard the scream of Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut, the goddess whose genesis was occurring before them in the heavens, then they most certainly heard the clawing and growling and hungering of her sky-born terrors who even now lacerated the face of the sky on their earthward passage to feast upon the horrorsome underworlders.
Hylsek Adech, spreading his blazing wings and swinging his rock-hewn skull - which even now ran with veins of magma to the three smouldering embers of his eyes - had been the most impatient and most excited of them all, and so he was the first of the drakhorey to descend and sear the surface of the world with a flame that was less flame and more hammer. He hammered the earth unrelentingly, he forged it anew with the ash of overworlder and underworlder alike. He wiped the slate clean.
There was to be no reward, of course. The drakhorey had known there would not be one from the moment they heard Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut's scream, and so they were not so much saving the world as trying to run away - from her. Even then the drakhorey had known to run away, and even then they had known it to be a vain endeavour. Hylsek Adech had been the first of them, however, and so Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut had done him the honour - in her own twisted way - of leaving him for the very last.
As the drakhorey broke free of the burning meteors, and as they came into being out of those hurtling isles of magma, the underworlder critters who had risen with rapacious hunger to glut themselves on the soft, yielding meat of the overworlders allowed themselves a pause and a heavenward gaze. They looked at the sky as they had enviously glanced of the overworld in prior times when it was denied them. And if they had not heard the scream of Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut, the goddess whose genesis was occurring before them in the heavens, then they most certainly heard the clawing and growling and hungering of her sky-born terrors who even now lacerated the face of the sky on their earthward passage to feast upon the horrorsome underworlders.
Hylsek Adech, spreading his blazing wings and swinging his rock-hewn skull - which even now ran with veins of magma to the three smouldering embers of his eyes - had been the most impatient and most excited of them all, and so he was the first of the drakhorey to descend and sear the surface of the world with a flame that was less flame and more hammer. He hammered the earth unrelentingly, he forged it anew with the ash of overworlder and underworlder alike. He wiped the slate clean.
There was to be no reward, of course. The drakhorey had known there would not be one from the moment they heard Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut's scream, and so they were not so much saving the world as trying to run away - from her. Even then the drakhorey had known to run away, and even then they had known it to be a vain endeavour. Hylsek Adech had been the first of them, however, and so Hyatonta-Ekninot-Mahtut had done him the honour - in her own twisted way - of leaving him for the very last.
Personality: Just wants to have a bit o' fun, really. Extraordinarily affable and amiable, quite social and gets along with pretty much anyone - rarely anything can get her riled up or truly insult her, though she may well pretend it has if the whimsy takes her. No dispute is ever truly personal - 'don't get riled up, it's just a bit o' fun.' Her personability aside, she is otherwise quite unpredictable and fickle - she is just as likely to be casually cruel and capricious as she is to be generous and giving. She is not by nature kind or 'good'; any 'good' she does stems primarily from her own whimsy and pursuit of pleasure.
Something truly more powerful than her may well terrify her - her nonchalance and fun-loving attitude is greatly derived from her firm conviction that there's nothing out there that can pose her any harm or threat, or that can truly limit her. Attempts to threaten or limit her may stir her interest and she may play along for the fun of it, but should it become apparent that she is not quite as in control - that some entity is able to toy with her as easily as she toys with the world - then things become a whole lot less fun for her.
Goals: Being a Life god, she will naturally want to create life and watch the world bloom. She will look down on any attempts by others to create life that is not tied to souls and may well launch a crusade against 'such sacrilege!' if the whimsy takes her. She will also, for no clear or logical reason, take to possessing random humans, who will go on living without realising they are the hosts of a god. She will actively fight and ally and plot and scheme with others for the fun of it, and will stop the moment it bores her - no alliance or contract is sacred as far as she is concerned.
Appearance:
Base Form.
Tonta has two primary base forms. The first is a wraith-like black and grey form boasting a bark face akin to a primitive wooden mask with two dark holes for eyes. This form is immediately corporeal and ethereal, or transitions between both states so seamlessly that it appears to be the case. Different parts of her may be corporeal while others are simultaneously ethereal. This form is broadly humanoid. See an image here.
The second is broadly humanoid, easily mistaken for a human or an elf were it not for the innumerable serpentine appendages that emerge from below her cloak and appear to be, to all extents and purposes, extensions of herself. See image above. But clothed. -.- IN DRAGON LIMB THINGS.
Beyond these, Tonta, being a Life goddess, will also appear to humans in the form of various life forms - she may manifest as an ant in one place, a rock in another, a puddle elsewhere, and a member of any sapient species at yet another, to play tricks on or otherwise test individuals and groups for her sporting pleasure.
True Form.
Tonta's true form is that of a great shifting spirit, female and humanoid in shape. In its benign aspect it causes life across the world to bloom and does no damage to any living thing that gazes upon it or is otherwise in its radius - rather the opposite. In its malign aspect her true form saps souls - and so life - from all things across the world, but the most terrible effect is on everything within her range of perception. The Drakhoreya form is a lesser version of her malign aspect, which takes on the form of a great ethereal, vaporous drakhorey. This is Tonta's inceptual form and gives off a world-altering scream that births drakhorey.
Tonta has two primary base forms. The first is a wraith-like black and grey form boasting a bark face akin to a primitive wooden mask with two dark holes for eyes. This form is immediately corporeal and ethereal, or transitions between both states so seamlessly that it appears to be the case. Different parts of her may be corporeal while others are simultaneously ethereal. This form is broadly humanoid. See an image here.
The second is broadly humanoid, easily mistaken for a human or an elf were it not for the innumerable serpentine appendages that emerge from below her cloak and appear to be, to all extents and purposes, extensions of herself. See image above. But clothed. -.- IN DRAGON LIMB THINGS.
Beyond these, Tonta, being a Life goddess, will also appear to humans in the form of various life forms - she may manifest as an ant in one place, a rock in another, a puddle elsewhere, and a member of any sapient species at yet another, to play tricks on or otherwise test individuals and groups for her sporting pleasure.
True Form.
Tonta's true form is that of a great shifting spirit, female and humanoid in shape. In its benign aspect it causes life across the world to bloom and does no damage to any living thing that gazes upon it or is otherwise in its radius - rather the opposite. In its malign aspect her true form saps souls - and so life - from all things across the world, but the most terrible effect is on everything within her range of perception. The Drakhoreya form is a lesser version of her malign aspect, which takes on the form of a great ethereal, vaporous drakhorey. This is Tonta's inceptual form and gives off a world-altering scream that births drakhorey.
Musical Theme:
Lauder The Tired One
Member
Seen
6 days ago
Domain:
Pain.
Pain, emotional and physical are all indicative of what it truly means to be alive in the world whether or not one is cognitive of feeling such emotional rife. It is pain that drives others to push forwards, morphing boys into men and morphing men into true champions for becoming powerful brings with it more pain. Such is the grim duty of Ketmera, acting as a reminder of danger and grief so that all can become stronger than what they once were. Around her, mortals can be filled with the pain of loss or overcome with far more physical pain and it is such things that she controls, even if it affects her as well.
Myth:
A young man stood over a funeral pyre, looking down upon the body of a great warrior who had died to old age not too long ago. The young man, the son, had an impassive look as he gazed upon the old form that was in front of him. He had not known his father much, not until he was old enough to take up arms and join his father on the fields of battle, but such times were long ago. There was still no sadness, just a feeling of knowing that they had lost a great warrior who would have know doubt fought valiantly longer had he had the opportunity to. The young man’s features did not change as he raised an arm that carried a torch, yet even as he knew that he had light the pure he could not bring himself to.
An arm came upon the back of his shoulder, causing him to spin around in surprise as nothing had made a sound. His eyes set upon that of an old lady, looking upon the body of the old warrior. He relaxed, knowing she posed no threat as he turned back to face his father in silence.
“An old friend?” The young man asked.
“In a way,” the old woman stated, solemnly as her eyes turned to the young man, “But he is not why I have come.”
“If you wish to speak to me then you can wait until after his body has been burned,” the young man responded, his voice cutting back with a bit of harshness he did not mean to.
“And yet you have not, young one,” the old woman said in a disinterested voice, “You have not moved on from your father’s death and that is why you have yet to free his soul from the mortal coils properly.”
Silence came onto the young man for a moment before nodding, “I suppose one could say that.”
“And how do you feel about your father’s death?” She asked.
“He was a fine warrior, it was a shame for his loss,” the young man answered.
“You say such things, but I can sense deep down you hold a great grief. Your father was a good man and, while he was not always around for you, you know that he cared deeply for you. You are pained by his loss,” the old woman explained, turning to the young man fully.
“You do not know how I feel,” the younger sneered, causing the old woman to cock an eyebrow.
“Why do you refuse to come to terms with the death of your father? Are you afraid to move on? Did you hold a longing for further time? Perhaps you-“ the old woman stopped, interrupted as the younger lashed out.
“He can’t leave us yet! Not when I have yet to have him meet his grandchildren, not when he has yet to say goodbye!” The young warrior barked, staring down at the woman with a face showing a great anger, yet, his eyes showed sadness. Then, a flash came through the great feeling of his breath coming to shake as he fell to his knees with tears from his eyes. He let out a wail of pain, unable to control himself anymore as grief overtook him.
The old woman, meanwhile, stepped forwards and gingerly wrapped her arms around the young man, running a hand upon the back of his head as she cooed, “Yes, we all long to finish things that have yet been finished or start upon tasks that we ought have. Yet, you know, that your father would have loved your child and that, even though you cannot hear him say goodbye, this is your chance to make peace.”
The young man’s shaken breath slowed as he wept, knowing that the old woman spoke true to what he needed to do. “But- what if my grief refuses to leave me?” He asked.
“It never will, but all you can do is grow from it. Know that so long as that grief is within you, you care for your father and know that it means you are alive,” the old woman stated in a soothing tone, “Now, do what you need to do.”
The young man rose from his knees, not looking upon the old woman but instead to the fallen. He rose up his hand with the torch and gazed into the closed eyes of his face before he uttered a few words, “Father, I will forever miss you. Let this be goodbye.” With a single swift motion, he threw the torch upon the base of the pyre and watched as the body began to burn away until there was nothing left. The grief had not gone but it had lightened, he turned to thank the old woman for being with him and instead saw that she had vanished despite knowing that she was with him the entire time. A look of confusion came upon his face before he looked to the distant hills and upon the crest of one, he saw the form of an old woman gazing with glowing eyes a white. While he could not see her features, the young man knew she was smiling.
Base Form:
Typically, the base form of an old woman dressed in ragged and black robes, her face is indistinguishable from underneath the hood and yet long strands of silvered hair flow from both sides of the hood. Every facet of her old and hunched over body is covered, but occasionally some may see a pair of glowing silvered eyes emerge from within.
True Form:
See image at top of sheet.
Musical Theme:
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