The Antiquarian Interred, The Huntsmaster
'Trust not the honeyed lies of those who prostrate themselves before cowardly, conniving lords. Remember the hushed tales of past glory, the consoling words of your father and mother, and their father and mother, as told under a starlit sky, as told to the tune of a softly crackling fire.
Remember whose soil your feet tread upon, remember whose knowledge you wield as you affix arrowhead to shaft, and remember whose city we live under the auspicious gaze of. Our hunts-master. Our law-bringer. Our ring-giver. He who stood when all other gods quailed, he who fought alone, undaunted by the failures of his peers and his disciples both.
Remember, but do not fawn. Do not weep. Dry your tears and steel yourself, my child, for it was not the Hunts-Master's way to give succor to the mewling. Remember whose wits you must rely on in the hard days ahead. Remember whose strength you must rely on when all those around you fail.
Be as he would have you be. Fear only the slow poison of fear. Show hospitality and friendship to those who deserve it. Show disdain to those who earn it.'
- Mantra of Peripheral Man
Storms, 'The Hunt', Time, Vengeance, Law
The accounts of those who have delved into the very heart of the labyrinthine necropolis which houses Corcanocht's body are scarce indeed, but all speak of a dessicated, colossal body upon a great throne, fitted with shining armor, a sword laid bare against its lap. This is what had become of Corcanocht. He was returned to his city by his most faithful disciples and interred therein, his most opulent palace becoming his mausoleum. He withered there, his body maintaining its composure despite the tightening of dry flesh and muscle. Whether it be divinity or the dry, cool chamber itself, there was no rot. No maggots dared spring from his flesh. No carrion beast thought to devour him. He has remained, his corporeal persistence both remarkable and heartening to his devout.
More remarkable, however, is how quickly his mortal visage has come into dispute, even amongst those who knew him well when he still strode the earth and plied the seas in his eclectic pursuits. Those amongst his faithful remember him as a paragon of civilization, as a giver of law and favor, as a righteous god who stood head and shoulder above his peers. At the same time, others favorably attribute a more muted coolness to him, likening him to some sort of sullen warrior-scholar-poet. And then there are those who remember him less fondly, who will describe him as a vengeful huntsman, a hateful butcher who wears antlers and other such 'pagan' trappings. But then, if they are further prodded at, if those who speak of him are asked specific questions, they can not answer. Even those who knew him well find the mental image of him growing fuzzy. His qualities have come to define him, rather than his true appearance. Fanciful, romanticized, and gruesome archetypes abound.
In life, Corcanocht's mannerisms were defined very strictly by the dominions he kept, his temperament being shaped by his duties, his powers, and his particular brand of disciples. It should be noted that while he grew to care for those that offered their loyalty and devotion to him, he never became a soft god. He was strict - a stern father - he did not accept failure or surrender, he did not accept a malicious wrongdoing going unaccounted for. He demanded absolute justice from his followers, and the disobedient and the weak and the treacherous would find only scorn in answer to their prayers.
He helped those who helped themselves, his greatest joy was to see his subjects succeed in the pursuit of their ambitions. To learn, to succeed in battle; to invent, to create, all varieties of eureka fell under his purview. He offered counsel to those who sought their destiny, to those who pursued their own unique brand of the hunt, and in particular he favored those who struggled in the name of an ideal or a person, rather than base personal ambition or avarice. Those who buried themselves in their work, who embraced a life dedicated to something greater than themselves, would find they had his ear if only they'd ask.
Above all, however, he considered himself a paragon of his dominions: the greatest lawgiver, the greatest hunter, the master of all storms, and the great keeper of time. He was not wrong, considering the powers conferred unto him by his progenitor and by his own divinity, but it made him proud. It made him vindictive just as it made him into a divine paternal figure. He was never one to doubt himself or second-guess, and ultimately this would come to be his undoing as he sought to circumvent the rules of the 'Great Game' of Roa, as he called it. But, in accordance with his own principles, he did not pursue war with Ophion as a means of personal gain, but rather as a pre-emptive strike in defense of existence. He was true to his dominions and disciples until the end, it's said.
Corcanocht is first and foremost a warrior and a leader, he remained manifested on the mortal plane for the majority of his existence, he was very active in the lives of his disciples and his subjects. He did not delegate his power onto a chosen messiah or an avatar, but instead ruled his slice of the world personally, with strength and knowledge that only a divinity could possess. He could travel freely within his domain, and manifested to those chosen few he believed had earned his counsel, such that oftentimes he could in fact be in more than one place in a single instance.
He had a limited gift of foresight; a schizophrenic, vague sense of likely outcomes that was a result of his stewardship of the temporal. It was a flawed sense, one made untrustworthy by his biases in past, present, and future. It lent to him a compulsion towards pursuing a 'correct' timeline, an unconcious drive forwards that was cyclically influenced by the outcomes of the future. It was a certain self-fulfilling, hazy guidance that was at the same time a product of his power over the dominion of time and the interference of his future self. Much of what he did, and what he planned to do, hinged on bizarre communications with himself and impromptu personal ritual.
Not only was he a steward of possible futures, but also one of the past, and particularly of events he regarded as 'notable', such as great triumphs in battle or the creation of great artifacts of power. He was a historian, of sorts, and made a point of knowing all that there was to know of times past, albeit with an inclination towards the romantic and the spectacular. He gathered and curated the past by various means: places of power, ancient scrolls, mental stimulus, etcetera. Great libraries, full of his own personal works, and the works of his priesthood, were once ubiquitous. Secrets wormed their way into these manuscripts, and into the trance-like 'reveries' he and his disciples could fall into, though without the power that they wielded as 'secrets'.
He was truly mighty in terms of raw, divine combative power. He was not a war god, but his place as a huntsman and an avenger propelled him into being one of the more singularly dangerous divinities present on Roa. He perpetually chafed under the unwritten accord of proxy warfare and restraint that dictated the actions of the gods, and he found precious little joy in the more conventional hunts of great beasts and great secrets. This restlessness could perhaps explain the earnestness by which he drove his chosen disciples onwards so excitedly.
Those who lived under the rule of Corchanoct regarded the patterns of weather with both a great deal of fascination and superstition, with the patterns of clouds and the inclinations of the wind having been regarded as omens, as indicators of the disposition of their master. In truth, he did possess some control of the weather of the world, but it was not nearly as nuanced, or extensive, as his subjects believed. At least it wasn't conciously so. He had an affinity for the more violent aspects of Roa's weather such as thunder, lightning, and gale winds, true, and he could influence such forces for the good or ill of the people of Roa, but it was rare for him to coax unnatural storms into being.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, he was a great civilizing element. His presence was inspiring, he was the huntsmaster and the lawgiver, and he instilled in his disciples great ambition and orderliness. He forged a great nation from disparate barbarian tribes. He revealed to them the fruits of scholarship and knowledge, and also re-affirmed in them the rewards of martial prowess. He lifted them up from savagery and into great marble cities with modern amenities. He built his people up in his image, godlike mortals fit to inhabit godlike cities. They were lent an almost supernatural prescience, and the question still remains whether it was truly their own doing or if they simply danced on his strings.
The Fulcrum
The Fulcrum is Corcanocht's personal blade, a weapon that is very much a part of his manifested, divine being. It is a weapon of indeterminate length and shape, and each mortal account of its use tends to describe it differently from the rest. Some claim that it's a titanic slab of rusting steel, others suggest it to be a gold-hilted cutlass. Constant among all tales, however, is the impression of raw power it exudes. It creates a sense of unease in those mortals who look upon it, as if there was something very primal about it, something apart from the base magics and metals of Roa. Something that transcended the mundanity of the shape Corcanocht chose for it. It is a truly powerful weapon, and it's only fitting that it remains on its owner's knees. To lay eyes on it would be to know one's unworthiness.
The Obelisk
Within the derelict sprawl of Corcanocht's great city there is a sect of his old priesthood that have, following his death, taken to the idolatrous veneration of a particular monument of his. Deep in the bowels of the city there is a steel-ringed shaft, perhaps once a well, that houses a great pillar of gilded, riveted steel, capped with black at its crown. The priesthood, 'The Fraternity of the Twin Locks', claim it to be an impossibly old instrument of Corcanocht's power, one that he feared to use even in his fatal confrontation with the Star-Serpent. The priesthood itself swaddles itself in heavy garb, burn copious amounts of incense, and carry bizarre, chattering magic wands.
The Ghost Sixty-Two
In the time since the death of Corcanocht a legend has grown on the coasts of his realm, sailors recounting tales of a great, monolithic ship sheathed in steel and composed of many jutting angles and long, tiered decks. None have attempted to climb aboard the vessel, and it has made no attempt to pursue any that it's come into close proximity with. Eerie lights emanate from the uppermost levels, and many swear they've spied the silhouettes of men and women on the decks. The only identifying mark it bears is a massive '62' painted onto the bow.
The Foremost Codex
As the great city grew around Corcanocht's palace he busied himself with more scholarly pursuits, retiring from the hunt of beasts primordial and divine to remain close to his most devoted subjects. In this time he wrote his supposed magnum opus, an unassuming book that was bound with birch bark. The book, and its mysterious contents, were subsequently lost with his death and the fall of his city. Rumor says that it contains, quite simply, the knowledge that the reader seeks. Rumor also says that the book is keen on exacting payment from those who greedily crack it open.
The Brass Bonds
Corcanocht loved nothing more than to test his devotees, to coax greater strength and cunning from them by way of hardship and incentives. To that end he came into possession of a pair of burnished brass armbands that were engraved with vignettes of exceptional heroism, often of one faceless warrior squaring off against numerous others, or perhaps one warrior against a great beast. Regardless, the theme of one against many, against overwhelming odds, was persistent. The story goes that the armbands possess a particular magic that sets one wearer into confrontation with the other, in a sort of elaborate 'king of the hill'. The larger of the bands is the prize of the victor, and is worn by the champion. The other is the mark of the challenger, and also makes one a target to those without either. A cyclical trial of strength for all who wish to be involved, for those who wish to be Corcanocht's favorite.
Corcanocht's current state of existence is something of a mystery to his followers. He no longer walks the earth, he no longer manifests to answer their pleas; for all intents and purposes he appears to be quite dead, and yet his domain persists still, albeit as a perversion of its former grandeur. His greatest relics supposedly still populate Roa if hearsay is to be trusted, though most have gone missing with his passing.
Perhaps the most telling indicator of Corcanocht's continued presence - if not his continued existence - is the current state of his following and his domain. While nought but a shadow of what once was, there still remains a devoted, albeit fractious populace and a realm that continues to abide by the universal territorial laws of the world. No deity has been able to truly 'claim' it, their power within its bounds remains just the same as if they were visiting the realm of a living, breathing divine.
The more audacious of those who remain of his priesthood claim that Corcanocht planned his death, or at least his defeat, such that his disciples would be left without his guidance. They frame it as a trial of devotion and strength, that he intended to see, upon his return, if his chosen were indeed worth his continued efforts. Others teach a lesson of hubris, of the fatal arrogance of a god and the loss of an omnipresent paternal presence. And some speak more cryptically, drawing lessons from increasingly disjointed reveries and from the enlightenment brought on by hallucinogenic alchemical extracts and meditation.
No matter what hope or doom his faithful preach, though, the singular present truth remains: Corcanocht is so diminished that even those amongst the divinity of Roa question if he yet lives. The poison of Ophion's brood did its foul work.
