AdorableSaucer

Divinus VII

The Ferryman

The Ferryman

Base Form:
The Ferryman’s base form is difficult to put into words. Well, the form - or the shape - comes fairly obvious to those with human eyesight: He, she, they appear as a lanky, bald humanoid in some sort of robed attire - a shepherd’s gown, perhaps? His, her, their hands reveal only a collection of skinny digits and an indication of long nails. The rest of the body hides within the folds and shadows of the gown, showing no further detail beyond the implication of a body.

Facial details appear unclear to onlookers - to some, they are sick and bony; to others, full and fair. No matter who looks, the face is either way always overshadowed by an obfuscating shade, perplexing onlookers further. That being said, the Ferryman can be perceived perfectly fine - he, she, they may just come off as somewhat off-putting.

Aspect: Death (Ferryman of Incorporeal Souls)
The Ferryman is a god of death, though not necessarily THE god of death. Death is a natural process, no less natural than being born and living - things are born, they live, they die. Everything from stone to mortal understands this cycle. Yet where the souls go after that? That is not necessarily a natural process. How do souls know how to get to the afterlife? What if there is no afterlife at all, but a reincarnation process instead? Hell, what if the souls don’t even realise that they’re dead?! Well, someone’s got to tell them and take them where they’re supposed to go, whether it be to some infinite field of reeds or inside some pregnant lady’s belly.

The bottom line is that souls, like people, need infrastructure. The Ferryman exists to meet that demand. This gives the Ferryman power to transport souls, as well as a natural affinity for finding, seeing and speaking with the dead. His, her, their powers are split between the self and the vessel (to be constructed IC): The small ferry known as Wellington can traverse air, land and water and carry several more souls than it should seemingly have space for. It exists in all temporal instances simultaneously so that the Ferryman has the chance to correctly pick up all dead souls without too much of a hassle. However, when Wellington exists in any other time than the present, its riders may not exit the vessel or risk being forced back to their own time by the powers that be - often torn apart by the grinding mill of time travel. Even gods may not be spared.

Persona:
Despite being a god of the dead, the Ferryman is far from dreary. After all, one can’t be wearing a sullen mug when everyone’s dying to meet you! As death gets the reputation it gets, the Ferryman makes great efforts to ensure that the passing into the afterlife becomes an interesting - if not fun - journey for all parties. He, she, they are quick with a joke and even more interested in hearing the stories of the many dead - as well as sharing stories they’ve picked up along the route.

Alone, of course, the Ferryman understands that life is not all sunshine and rainbows. He, she, they take time to sit quietly on the eternal sea of existence, contemplating the meaning of life, death and everything in between. They fashion themself somewhat of a philosopher, and will gladly sit for hours discussing.

Myth

Raff had done it. He had sworn he had done it. It, it had been right there in his hand, right? He, he had surely felt it being there, then in his neck pouch. The earl’s ring! He had had the earl’s ring - he had seen it; he had felt it; for crying out loud, he had even smelt the sweaty gold stink coming off of it! So why… Why hadn’t he had it when he was supposed to turn it over to Hawaldr? What had gone so wrong?!

Slowly, the boy felt a strange cold squeeze at his extremities. The pooling blood underneath his run-through torso began to seep between the planks on the floor. Above him, he saw the giant of a man, Hawaldr, the earl’s disinherited brother, wiped clean his sword with a sorry, deflated woolen cap - Raff’s cap. His muscles twitched briefly and he tried to say something - a bloody ball of phlegm was all he could muster. He heard some response from Hawaldr, but his ears felt numb and stuffed - all he heard was a rumbling voice that slowly, yet faster and faster, ebbed out into nothingness. His vision blurred over; he lost control of his limbs, his tongue, his neck. Whatever nerves still lived reported a pressure point coming from the shoulder area - Hawaldr had surely kicked him. Yet Raff could do nothing to retaliate. The last sparks of life faded from his eyes and so did the breath from his lungs. Raff, son of Rudol, was dead.

Just as the fact of death was established, something else was born. Or, well, to say that it was born would be to gloss over its already seventeen year long existence. It was just that now, upon its second birth (perhaps a better term), the soul of Raff had to go on without a body. Only, he hadn’t realised this just yet. The vengeful emotions within the boy boiled over and in a burst of rage, he pushed himself to his feet and stabbed a finger in Hawaldr’s direction.

“THIS IS UNFAIR! I HAD IT IN MY HAND! I SWEAR IT!”

Hawaldr did not reply. In fact, he slowly turned away and mumbled to one of his cronies, “Get rid of him… And have Kraca bring a mop!”

Raff blinked ethereally. “H-hey!”

“Woof! Rough day, huh?”

Raff spun around and beheld a man (or possibly woman, or maybe something in between - its voice gave no clues) leaning over a boathead snaking upwards. Raff followed the humanoid’s puzzlingly featureless (yet also fairly featurefull) face down along a pair of gowned shoulders leading to two slinky arms, fingers interlaced on the tall wooden head of a small dory with an equally long tail. Raff took a moment to rub his eyes as he noticed that, within the warm, cushy longhouse of Hawaldr’s farm, there was now an iridescent river flowing in from nowhere and out into nowhere. Upon this river rested the little boat and its grinning master. The Ferryman shot a glance down and clicked its figurative tongue.

“The ol’ belly shank, huh? Not the best way to go. Usually pretty slow, but you got lucky - he cut into your liver, so you bled out pretty quickly.” There was a small pause. “Hey, look on the bright side - at least he didn’t stab you in the back!”

“B-bled out, wha–?” Raff cast a look down, then slightly sideways to follow his corpse-prison with his gaze as it was being dragged away, leaving a trail of red behind it. He heard Hawaldr yell furiously: “No-no-no! Did your mothers drop you on your heads?! You’re getting blood all over my floor!” Raff felt another sting of rage and clenched his incorporeal fists hard.

“Damn, what an ass, huh?” the Ferryman added supportively.

“I had it. I had the ring. How, why was it not in my pouch?” He patted at the spiritual representation of his clothing and grabbed his pouch. With a deft squeeze, it gaped and revealed its contents - a copper coin and some pretty shells, but nothing else. “Why?!”

The Ferryman shrugged. “Couldn’t say, mister. I usually only show up a minute or two before a passing - must’a lost it before that.”

Raff paced around briefly. “The, the mud pools! The mud pools under the earl’s fence! I had to crawl through to escape the fort and, and…” He grit his teeth and kicked at a nearby chair - his incorporeal leg phased right through. “Damn it!”

The Ferryman’s grin faded somewhat and she rubbed her cheekbone slightly. “Well, if it’s any consolation, mister, I picked up his cousin a few years back, and he had gotten the axe merely for spilling water on this guy in the presence of the earl. To put it bluntly, he’s not the forgiving type.”

Raff deflated. “How is that any consolation at all?”

The Ferryman shrugged. “I guess we can establish that it wasn’t personal?”

“Just… I don’t need to be consoled right now. This is it. My life is over…”

The Ferryman’s grin returned in full and they sat down in the boat with a small chuckle. Raff spun angrily. “What, are you laughing at me?!”

“Oh, oh no, mister!” the Ferryman replied gleefully. “It’s just that your life, well, it’s only just begun.”

Raff blinked and walked towards the boat. “Y-yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” said the Ferryman with a nod. “Consider that whole “living” business the trial package; now the real thing starts.”

Raff swallowed and took a nervous step into the boat. He hadn’t been much of a sailor in his living days, but oddly enough, this little dory felt steadier and safer than the largest longship he had ever been in. He made himself comfortable and the Ferryman gripped a long stick from inside the vessel and stuck it in the (for the lack of a better term) river. The scene of Hawaldr’s house quickly faded into nothing as the boat phased through the wall and soared into the heavens, sailing the ether of souls. Raff sat agape and took in the sights of the world below.

“By the gods…”

“Yeah, it’s a sight, isn’t it? Doesn’t get much better than this.”

Raff swallowed again and sheepishly tucked his hands between his legs as he looked down at the floor. “So… What’s our destination?”

The Ferryman hummed in thought. “Well, I hate to break it to ya, mister, but we’re going to Aldion.”

“ALDION?!” Raff squealed in fear.

“Yup.”

“Y-you’re sure it’s, it’s Him, right?” Raff mimicked horns on his head with his fingers.

“Yap.”

For a brief moment, Raff sat still in shock. Then, with the vigour of a spooked rabbit, he shot up and tried to jump ship. However, before the Ferryman could warn him, the ghost hit the invisible wall at the vessel’s edge and bounced back dazed into his seat. The Ferryman sighed.

“Are you okay, mister?”

Raff quickly regained his senses and pushed himself to a stand once again. “Why?! Why am I being sent to Hell?! Explain it to me - WHY?!”

The Ferryman pursed his lips and pulled out a small scroll from the inside of his gown. “Let’s see here, Raff Rudolson… Well, I’m happy to tell you that your atonement, Mr. Rudolson, will likely be a short one. Theft, while a crime, is not at the top of Aldion’s naughty list. You should be out of there in no time– oh… Oh, oh, wait, wait, wait… Brokeoathto… Huh… Uh-huh…”

Raff furrowed his brow. “What? What?! Spit it out, man - am I just dropping by or…?”

The Ferryman frowned sympathetically and flipped the scroll so he could read it. “Yeah, no - see, your theft was at the top there, so I read that first - my bad. Says here, though, that you’ve been in the earl’s service for a good while - your whole life, it seems. Your father was a huscarl, right?”

Raff rolled his eyes. “More of a steward, that old geezer, but yeah…”

“Mhm, making you a serviceman by blood - you were a servant at court too, no?”

“I guess. Why?”

The Ferryman tapped the sentence under. “Looks here like you swore an oath of service to him at some point. Last year, was it? Stealing from your master, well… Aldion might not care all that much about theft, but breach of loyalty - hoo boy…”

What colour remained in Raff’s face drained. The Ferryman re-furled the scroll and put it back inside her gown. A half hour passed without a word before Raff whispered, “I… I thought I would have time to make up for it…”

“Mhm. Lotta mortals seem to think that way.”

“It… It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

“It never is, is it?”

Another pause, this one shorter. The Ferryman eventually offered Raff a smile and said, “Actually, I had this other passenger whose story reminds me a lot of yours!”

“Please, I appreciate it, but…”

“No, no, no, you’ll love it. Now this guy, hoo boy… See, about a century back…”

Musical Theme

Crucible of Gods - A New Divine RP

Making Friends - Surely a Mistake

---

“Shit… That was too close,” murmured Manek, a pox-dotted hand rubbing a sun-blistered neck and adjusting the wet turban fashioned from rags that sat atop his head like a cowpie.

There came a groan from his left. “I think that son of a bitch dislocated my shoulder…”

“Oh, shut it, Sadwa, you dumb bitch. You reap what you sow - you go for the biggest guy, the biggest guy breaks your arm, simple as.”

The small man with the bulb-like shoulder grit his teeth as he glared at the knife-wielding skeleton of a man who was arguably more lice-infested beard than meat and muscle. “Oh, well, your statement must be a whoooole grilled pheasant, that, because that sounds rich as all hell. Who pushed me at that fat lump, huh? Oh, let me guess - his name rhymes with– agh! Ow, ow, ow.”

The boned man squeezed a laughter. “Oh, widdle Sadwa aw owie-owie? Arm aww hudhie?”

“Skinny, stop kicking the ox,” silenced Manek and slapped him over the back of the head. Skinny tilted forward and pecked at Sadwa’s shoulder with his forehead, inciting a pained squeal. As their argument intensified, Manek groaned and sped up. Ahead of the three of them, a fourth man made stoic steps through the woods, greasy black hair glittered with forest floor detritus flowing down a moth-eaten reed sack that functioned as a tunic. A blood-crusted sharpened stick that doubled as a walking stick filled his right hand, and his weak body needed all the support it could get. Despite his frail appearance, though, his grim, wrinkled expression radiated loyalty to an unnamed purpose. Manek cleared his throat and lowered himself slightly with great respect.

“Krassus,” he greeted. The man offered him a grunt of acknowledgment, barely audible against the background cacophony of the other two idiots. Manek continued, “What’s the plan now? I mean, that was–...”

“Another fluke,” the leader stated without turning his head. “Scipio was out of position; Fat Luck wasn’t fast enough; Skinny and Sadwa were…”

“Skinny and Sadwa?” Manek finished.

“Precisely,” Krassus concurred coldly without casting a glance backwards, yet it seemed as though the simple mention of their names came as a windshear that shut the two up in shame. Manek rolled his eyes at them and sneered at Krassus.

“Remind me again why–”

“You will not finish that sentence,” Krassus warned and stopped. Manek froze in his steps. Skinny and Sadwa blinked like a pair of puppies. Krassus shared a glare with each of them and sighed. “It seems that after every blunder, we must remind ourselves what we are…” He pointed at Sadwa. “Raper. Shunned and cast out from your home for grotesque and animalistic acts against your brother’s wife. Rumour says she will never bear a child again. You are an affront to gods and men alike.”

Sadwa hung his head in shame. Krassus spat on the ground and turned to Skinny. “Murderer. Four people, nonetheless - all because, what, because you wanted to? Why, Skinny?”

Skinny swallowed. “They, they were looking down on me and–”

“And what? You thought killing them would prove your point? You disgust me.” The colour drained from Skinny’s skin, excentuating the hollows between his bones.

Lastly, Krassus turned to Manek. Manek made a hard face back. Krassus eyed him up and down. “What, you aim to meet the truth with pride? Tell me, Manek, what pride is there to be had in infanticide, hmm?”

“You’ve proven your point, sir…–”

“Oh, no, I don’t think that I have, Manek” Krassus hissed back. “You ask me every single time – without fail – why I shepherd the most worthless, ungrateful and hopeless looters, brigands and highwaymen on this side of the 18th Node.” The three winced. “The answer – every time – is that we, Manek, are scum. Filth. Waste that not even the rats will dine on. We are subordinate to cockroaches, that’s what we are. Do you know what that means, Manek?”

The shattered, pox-dotted man didn’t dare to look up. “We stick together with whom we’ve got.”

“That’s right,” breathed Krassus coarsely. His eyes shifted slowly between the three of them. “We stick together with whom we’ve got. When the world turns its back on sinners like us, we have no choice but to live in the darkness with those who dwell it with us. We hate each other, but we depend on each other. No man an island; no wolf a pack. We lie, cheat and steal so that we may live another day. We hunt the most dangerous prey of all - redemption. We dine on rotting dogs and drink filthy water in the hopes that, one day, a little droplet of light with penetrate our darkness and grant us that chance - that once chance to forgo all the consequences of our actions and step back into the day.” He stuck his hand into his tunic and took out a bronze-coloured dime. On one side was the unmistakable horned head of Xavior.

“Whe-where’d you get that, boss?” whispered Skinny as though they were in a temple.

Krassus cast him a short-lived glance and spun on his heel. “We keep moving.” As the black-haired man stormed off deeper into the woods, the three remained for a second to exchange uneasy looks. Manek sighed.

“I’ll… See to that shoulder, Sadwa. Here, take a seat…”

---

By nightfall, the little band had found an enclave in the woods at the border between node 22 and 26 that they were sure hardly even the trees knew about. So hidden was this place that they were uncertain whether they would find the exit again. In order words, it was perfect. Here, the group laid down to rest, lighting no fires as they didn't trust their hiding spot that much. They probably weren’t being hunted, but one could never be too sure.

However, around an hour past midnight, Sadwa rustled to his feet and let out a silenced yawn. With filthy feet, he strolled his way over to a nearby tree to answer nature’s call. As he let the streams flow freely, he remarked the somewhat odd sound at the impact point. Rather than the deep, hollow drum of liquid pouring over the forest floor, a wetter, flatter pitter-patter instead dominated the soundscape. Sadwa frowned and looked down. There, just barely visible in the forest darkness, he could make out, well, something… A rock? It was… Somewhat gray, he supposed, so why not. He shrugged to himself.

Then it moved.

“AAAAAAH!” came the scream that awoke the rest.

“Sadwa, that dumb cunt,” groaned Skinny and rolled to a seat. Krassus and Manek were already storming into the woods in pursuit of the sound. It didn’t take them long to reach him, laying there whimpering on the ground caressing his splinted arm, which had been twisted into an inhuman angle. A fist took him by the hair and jolted him from the ground, a sheen of metal closing in at his throat.

“STOP!” shouted Krassus. The metal halted on a soft indent against Sadwa’s skin, a trickle of red dripping down the quivering throat. The moon revealed it to be a knife as silvery as fish scales, held in the tight grip of a uniformed man in a long silver cloak with dripping wet hair. Manek swallowed.

“Shit, it’s a fucking paladin,” he squeezed through frozen lips and looked for escape routes. Krassus instead held up a hand. He put down his sharpened stick and reached out his other towards Sadwa and the captor.

“Evening, sir. See you’ve got my friend in your hand. What would it take for you to let him go?”

All he got in response was a flaring, nasal breath like that of a furious bull. Sadwa tried his best to stifle his sobbing as every hulk ground his throat up against the knife. Krassus reached forth his other hand and held them open for the assailant to see. He nodded for Skinny and Manek to drop their weapons as well. “Hey, we’re not going to hurt you, sir. That man there is a good friend of mine - if you don’t hurt him, we won’t hurt you.”

The man scoffed. “You think you can hurt me, huh? Huh? Is that why you pissed on me, huh? To taunt me?” The breathing intensified. “IS IT?!”

Sadwa sobbed as his every orifice expelled what it could expel in an effort to empty the body. Krassus tried not to break eye contact with the man despite the shameful display. “I’m sorry, he did what to you? Oh, that’s awful! I’m downright ashamed on his behalf, sir! Downright ashamed! If you give him back to us, I will make sure he doesn’t eat for a weak - swear before the gods.”

The man heaved a deep breath and pulled the knife back a little. Then not even a second later, he put the blade right back where it had been and pulled at Sadwa’s hair with such violent strength that he threatened to scalp him. “This is a trick, isn’t it? You’re, you’re trying to trick me - make a fool out of me like everyone else. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

Krassus took a small step forward. The angle of the moon allowed him to get a better look at the stranger’s face. What had no doubt once been a well-kempt beard, fine hair and stoic features had been twisted by an eternity in the woods. He looked wilder than them - not even wolves had such savagery in their eyes. “No tricks, sir. You’ve got my word.” He feigned a polite chuckle. “Hell, do we even look like the sort who eat multiple times per week?”

The man softened again. “... Eaten, beaten, robbed of my node, sent on the run and now peed on? I’m… I’m no better than some stray dog…” A flash of silver left small blindspots on their eyes as the moonlight sheen reflected off of the dagger dropping to the ground. “I’m supposed to be a god… Here I am, smelling like a pigsty with no followers, no friends… No one but the voices, _{oh the voices…}” He released Sadwa, who dropped to the ground with a snotty thump, and started slapping himself in the face. “Do you know how that makes me feel?! DO YOU KNOW HOW THAT FEELS?!”

Krassus had to employ every inch and drop of discipline in his body to maintain his calm. He had been skeptical of Manek’s hypothesis that this had been a Benean paladin on the run, but a god? Could it be? Could they have have found their ultimate haul? He tried as subtly as he could to swallow his excitement and gestured for the man to continue. “How does it make you feel?”

The man froze mid-slap. “... What did you just ask me?”

Krassus felt sweat accumulate on his forehead. “H-how does it make you feel? What you just said?”

The man blinked. “You… You actually want to know? A-are you approaching me with… With interest?” Instinctively, another knife appeared in his hand out of thin air. Krassus heard slack-jawed whispers behind him and felt the tremors in the ground from the shaking feet of his companions. The man held his knife arm spring-loaded like a cat ready to pounce. “Is, is this a trick?”

“Not a trick, divine one - no, Magnificent One,” Krassus corrected and bent the knee. That knife - all the proof they needed. His companions, save for the already-floored Sadwa, both prostrated themselves in an instant. “If something ails the Ultimate Being, then we as servants must naturally know so we can help repair it!” He bent the other knee and lifted his hands to the man in prayer. The man was stunned.

“M-M-M-Magnificent One? Ultimate B-Being?” he whispered under his breath.

“My humblest apologies, Master of the World. My useless, unlearned tongue cannot precisely formulate adequate cognonyms to describe your superiority over us and everything there is. I cannot regret my mistakes enough–”

“No, no, that’s… That’s fine…” The man tasted the monikers under his breath. “W-well… Since you asked… It… Makes me feel… Aaaangry,” he explained slowly. “... I feel like… I don’t get the… The respect… That I as, as y’know a divine being, deserve. N-nobody… Nobody listens… Ever. P-people can’t, can’t just… Shut the ffffffffffffffuck up… And, and, and, and that pisses me off. _{It pisses me off so much}… So much, so much, so much, SO MUCH, SO MUCH–”

“Celestial Master,” Krassus implored calmingly. During the man’s outburst, the three hand closed in on him slowly. Manek and Skinny were tending to the whimpering Sadwa while Krassus adressed the god. The man eyed the three of them with glassy eyes and that bull-like breath again.

“A-are you going to leave me?”

Krassus frowned at the very question. “My Eternal King…” He bent the knee once more. “... We are your loyal servants. Your wish is our command - we would never leave you. In fact…” Slowly, Krassus reached out and gently took the knife from the man’s hands without resistance. He permitted his eyes to scan its appearance; his hands to feel its weight. This was unlike any metal he - and anyone he had ever known, he suspected - had ever held. It looked as sharp as polished obsidian. He cut as softly as he could across the top of his palm, crimson streaks flowing out immediately as the metal effortlessly parted tissue and flesh. The blade was so fine that there was hardly any pain until a few seconds after the deed was done. What a magificent weapon… He rubbed the blood across his palm and touched his face, leaving a bloody print. “Let this hand be the symbol of my loyalty, Great Master. Should I, Krassus, ever leave you or your service, let it serve as a reminder that you may take my hand, my head and my life. Please, let us know your name so we may swear our oath formally.”

Now it was the man’s turn to stare slack-jawed. A good minute passed before he started fidgeting and patrolling in a small circle, whispering to himself. Krassus remained motionless, while his companions exchanged worrisome looks. After another minute, even Krassus had to shut his eyes in blind hope that this would work. The adrenaline pumped in his veins - every part of urged him to run in case this wouldn’t work. But if it did work…

“_{No… No, no, no… Yes… No… No, that’s stupid… Crimson Hands…? No, bad metre…}”

Krassus opened one eye. Could it be…?

“VERY WELL,” declared the man louder than he needed to. “... I have… Elected. That you three - four, sorry, four–” Sadwa cried as Skinny and Manek tried to pop his arm back into place with a great deal of effort. “... Will serve as my eternal disciples… Servants… Followers…” He swallowed and pointed at Krassus. “Henceforth…” A second of quiet passed. “... You shall be known as… As…” Another second. Krassus swallowed. “Krassus.”

Krassus blinked and nodded slowly. “I, I thank you for naming me–”

“APP! Not finished. Don’t interrupt me.” The man stared into the distance with thoughtful eyes. “Krassus… Krassus…” He tasted the name. “... Krassus… King Krassus… Prince Krassus… Cardinal Krassus…” Finally, the god pointed a second hand and declared decisively, “Krassus Ecclesiast, Grand Synodite of Cotazur, Cosmic King of the Crucible."

There was a moment of silence.

“I thank you for my title, Cotazur, Cosmic King of the Crucible.”

Cotazur nodded in approval. “Please, Nestor Over Nodes and Nations will do just fine,” he threw out smugly and moved on to the rest. “You, shit-stained bitch,” he said as though it was a compliment. Sadwa, Skinny and Manek all looked up with horrified smiles. Cotazur kicked Sadwa gently and, with the most sickening, cringing and ear-shattering sound known to man, every bone in his broken arm and shoulder twisted itself back into place. Sadwa didn’t even scream. The pain was too severe for that. Cotazur didn’t seem to care and nodded approvingly. “Taking it like a chomp, a champ. You shall be known as… What’s your name?”

Before anyone could answer, Cotazur continued. “Well, it won’t matter. It was probably as stupid as you are for pissing on me.” He drilled a finger into Sadwa’s temple that threatened to pierce both skin and skull. The others could do nothing but watch. Sadwa had long since passed out. “You sure can handle your pain, huh. Then it’s settled. You shall be known as Lazarus Delendum, Grand Bulwark of Cotazur, Unrelenting Destroyer of Enemies.”

Stepping on the passed-out body as he moved onto the next, he faced Skinny who was at the break of tears. “What’s your–”

“SKINNY!” he squealed.

Cotazur frowned. “Well, that’s no way to speak to your master.” With a surgically precise grip, he forced open Skinny’s mouth with one hand and conjured yet another knife in his other. “Maybe that tongue of yours needs readjustment.”

“Nestor Over Nodes and Nations,” Krassus pleaded.

“Krassus, didn’t I tell you to call me Eternal Lord of Lords and Lands?” Cotazur spat back as he held the knife right over Skinny’s mouth. “Hmm… That beard, too - you look like a tumbleweed, y’know…”

“Eternal Lord of Lords and Lands,” Krassus corrected. “His name is Skinny. Forgive him, please, he is just nervous in the presence of the Almighty.”

Cotazur looked at Krassus and then back at Skinny. Then he spat a laughter into the bearded mess of a face. “Your NAME is Skinny? Oh, my word, what a pathetic and disgustingly descriptive name. It’s almost so hopeless that I nearly want you to keep it. Nearly.” As he grumbled on a new name, the knife tick-tocked from side to side over Skinny’s still gaping mouth. “No, you’ll need a better one. I won’t have one in my battle battalion by the name of Skinbo, no, no, no, siree… Still, what can a walking anatomy lesson like you do for me…”

“‘Eaah…” pleaded the gaping man.

“I’ve got it! Henceforth, you shall be known as Excels Supremitus, Grand Assassin of Cotazur, Utopian Prince of All Creation. Your skinny frame is sure to let you sneak in all over the place, hmm? Hahahaha.” He let Excels go and moved on wordlessly while the man massaged his jaw tearfully. Manek resigned to his fate and stood still in the face of danger. Cotazur nodded with respect.

“Look at you. No fear in those eyes. I admire that. Much like myself, you possess an unyielding fighting spirit and cannot even fathom of the idea of retreat. You stand your ground, like me.” Cotazur’s fist punched Manek’s shoulder, and anyone without the god’s rose-tinted glasses could see that the blow had knocked him several steps back and nearly dazed him. “What is your name?”

“M-Manek,” replied the weakened looter.

“Oh, no, that won’t do. Such a small name would be invisible next to your peers’. You shall henceforth…” He drummed his fingers on Manek’s other shoulder, leaving bruises. “Rictus Erectus, Grand Commissar of Cotazur, the Alpha, Omega, X, Y and Z of Literally Anything You Can Think Of.”

Rictus could barely stand. “I think, I think you punctured something…”

“Yes, Rictus, I could not have said it better myself. I have punctured something - the stagnant state of this world. With you four lieutenants at my side, my ambition to shape this world into its true form can be realised.” The following dramatic pause gave the others a chance to breathe. Krassus jumped on the chance to speak.

“Then… Where are we heading, Cosmic King of–”

“Just Cotazur is fine. How many times do I have to repeat myself here?”

“Cotazur,” Krassus corrected instantly. “Where are we heading first as part of your grand plan?”

“Plan?”

Krassus nodded. “The plan, yes.” There was a pause. “We have a plan, yes?”

“No, that’s your job, you ffffffffffucking IMBECILE. You are the GRAND SYNODITE! This is what you FUCKING do!” Cotazur kicked over a tree.

Krassus nodded. “Forgive me, Cotazur–”

“MASTER Cotazur.”

“Master Cotazur. I am still adjusting to your magnificent tasks. I have a plan already, you see.”

Cotazur blinked. “You do?”

“Oh yes, oh yes. A grand plan. A plan to assure your rule for all eternity.”

Cotazur nodded approvingly. “Well, then, no time to lose. You will share it with me on the way. We journey northwards,” he proclaimed and walked off.

“The Master is as wise as he is mighty - north is indeed where we’re going!” yelled Krassus after him before kneeling down to help his companions. Lifting Lazarus up by the arm, he glanced over at Excels and Rictus. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Are you insane?!” whispered Excels sharply. “If we go with him, we’re dead, you hear me? Dead!”

Krassus sighed. “Look, I don’t disagree with that assessment, but this is a god we’re dealing with. Imagine what he could give us.”

“Yeah! The slowest fucking way out! He nearly killed Sadwa - Manek here is going all pale!”

“I don’t feel so good, boys,” Rictus sloshed and coughed. Krassus sighed.

“This won’t be a forever thing, okay? We’ll stick around with him for now… We’ll find him an army of brigands in the north–”

“Fucking Fat Luck’s plan, dude?!”

“Yes, Fat Luck’s plan. I know some people in Tilum’Velik - we couldn’t convince them before, but… Maybe we can do it now… Imagine the loot, Skinny…”

“I AM NOT ONE TO WAIT, MINIONS!” came a shout from the woods ahead. The four of them hurried. Excels shook his head as he supported the increasingly paler Rictus.

“... And I thought I was crazy…”

Summary!

Four bandits are on the run from a bad blunder in the forests between node 22 and 26. Two of them, Skinny and Sadwa, bicker over whose fault it was while Manek consults their boss Krassus. Krassus gives them all a stern talk about the importance of apes together strong and that escaping their pasts is the goal.

That night, Sadwa goes out for a tinkle. He pees on something weird which, surprise surprise, turns out to be Cotazur passed out on the forest floor. Cot breaks his arm and almost kills him, but Sadwa's teammates arrive just in time. Krassus manages to calm Cotazur and, upon hearing that he's a god, swears allegiance. Everyone except for Cotazur thinks this is a really shitty idea, but the alternative is starvation. Cotazur, only experiencing positive social contact for a second time, is ecstatic and completely reinvigorated. He names all four of them his lieutenants:

Krassus becomes Krassus Ecclesiast, Grand Synodite of Cotazur, Cosmic King of the Crucible.

Sadwa becomes Lazarus Delendum, Grand Bulwark of Cotazur, Unrelenting Destroyer of Enemies.

Skinny becomes Excels Supremitus, Grand Assassin of Cotazur, Utopian Prince of All Creation.

Manek becomes Rictus Erectus, Grand Commissar of Cotazur, the Alpha, Omega, X, Y and Z of Literally Anything You Can Think Of.

(WARNING: These titles come with literally no powers and are arguably a detriment given they each take a minute to pronounce.)

Cotazur then rages at Krassus for not having a plan the second after being granted the intuitive title of Grand Synodite, who obviously is in charge of the plans. As it turns out, he does have a plan, though, and they all set off for the north and the nodes around 13, the looters all agreeing that this is a very bad idea.

Might!

5 Might, not a dime spent, not even on his fresh lieutenants.

Crucible of Gods - A New Divine RP

Waking Up - The Second Mistake

Lined eyes groggily opened to face a stone ceiling. It felt as though a layer of dust took flight off of Cotazur’s face as he weakly smacked desert lips and turned his head. Where, where was he? He tried to push himself to a seat but stopped in his movement as a fiery pain stabbed him through the torso. In that instant, a rush of memories returned. The rock, the voices, the beast…

The wound.

He laid back down with a thump and tried lifting just his head instead. His crusty eyes settled on a belt of reeds around his waist, their yellow colour only slightly tainted by spots of red just over the centre of the stinging pain. He was close to healing - how long had he been out?

A rush of fabric hinted at an intruder and Cotazur pushed himself to a seat despite the pain. Wet pats of naked feet pittered against damp stone and the flicker of a torch unveiled more features of the room, or more specifically, the cave. Cotazur sucked in a slow breath and, gathering his strength, summoned a small dagger into his hand. The steps came closer; Cotazur swiftly hid the dagger behind his back.

Come on now, you little shit - coming to finish the job, huh? Come on… COME ON.

“Oh!” said a gentle face as the torch rounded the corner and came into view. Cotazur stiffened. Before him stood a young woman, only just barely at the end of her teens, holding a bark tray with something steaming. The god pulled his legs a bit further in; the dagger hand was wound up like a spring. The girl’s smile waned, but only barely. “Oh, no need to be scared of me, stranger. I mean you no harm. I just didn’t know you’d woken up already.” She knelt down next to him, prompting Cotazur to realise he had been laying on a reed mat on the floor. “You were barely breathing when we found you. My father sewed your wound shut as best he could - the belt is just to make sure it stays clean.” She lifted a small bark bowl off the tray and set the torch in a hole between some stones.

Her words relieved some tension in Cotazur’s body, and his intense eyes stared into hers with drilling properties. The girl met them briefly and returned the stare with a short-lived smile - Cotazur could outstare a fish. Her eyes were quick to return to her task. The graying man’s intense gaze shifted to the steaming bowl. “How long have I been asleep?” he demanded as he took the bowl from her a little too harshly and gave it a sharp sip. The girl recoiled slightly but showed only momentary annoyance at his behaviour.

“We found you three days ago,” she answered. “You didn’t show much sign of life beyond your breathing until yesterday evening. My father’s hand nearly blistered at the warmth of your fever, I’ll tell ya…” she giggled politely. Cotazur stared wordlessly back. “And then,” she continued with a flat mouth, “you rambled quite a bit in your sleep. You… Cursed a lot.”

Cotazur blinked for the first time since he had awoken. “What did I say?”

The girl blinked back. “W-well, from what I remember–”

“The exact details - WHAT DID I SAY?!” he screamed suddenly. The girl threw herself back.

“H-hey! Hey, okay, it’s alright. You’re safe, okay? No, no need to shout, alright?” She swallowed and eyed the cave entrance. Cotazur panted like a sprinter. The girl stood up. “I am sorry for disturbing you. I’ll leave you be.”

“NO. No.” In a second, Cotazur was standing up and blocking the entrance. The girl froze.

“How are you–”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, would you–...” Cotazur held up his hands in a small gesture. The girl positioned her body sideways in defense. “Would you… Stay, please? I’m… I’m really… Just really…” He searched visibly for words, his eyes darting back and forth like flies swimming in milk. “... I want to thank you, for nursing me back to health.”

The girl’s lip quivered. “Y-yeah. Of course.” Her eyes bypassed him and yearned for the exit. “I’ll… I’ll get you some more broth, sounds good?”

“No, I mean, I am really, really grateful. Like, I cannot overstate my gratitude, really.”

“Yeah, uh-huh, that’s very kind of you to say.” Another desperate glance. “You sure you aren’t hungry? A-actually, I can hear my dad calling me and–”

“You know what? I want to give you a hug. How about a hug, hmm? Come on, bring it in here.”

“Actually, I really think I should–”

“No, no, no, you have to let me show my gratitude first. Come on, see? Now we’re hugging and I am showing you–”

“P-please, you’re– being–...”

“- that I am very, very satisfied with your service, or possibly favour for me–...”

“- you’re— hurting… m–...”

“- which I will be sure to repay in kind.”

Snap.

Like an empty sack, the girl collapsed to the ground as soon as he released her, white foam dripping out of her mouth. Cotazur blinked. “Hello?” He gave the girl a gentle kick then looked around. “Hello? Did you fall asleep?” Sensing beads of sweat form down his back, he knelt down and shook her. “Hey! Hey, what’s going on?! Are you playing a trick on me? ARE YOU PLAYING A TRICK ON ME, YOU FUCKING WHORE?!” He picked up the corpse and shook it so hard that many more bones inside the fleshy bag began to rattle. He pushed it up against the wall and smacked it bloody, though no reaction other than the straight physical ones could be discerned upon that once sweet face. Cotazur’s breathing was the only sound in the cave.

Pat, pat, pat…

No… No, it wasn’t.

“Grisha?” came a gruff voice. “Grisha, are you alright? I heard shouting and–”

He turned the corner and saw the maltreated corpse of the girl.

“Gr–” was the only sound he could muster before his throat opened up and spilled blood all over Cotazur’s arm. The now crimson dagger glistened in the light of the torches around the cave, and Cotazur’s breathing overtook the soundscape once more.

Fuck… Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

“Kolja? Grisha? Is everything okay in there?”

Fuck.

---

A long distance away, a blood-drenched man was crossing an eternal black desert with crimson storms and plague-green skies. His left hand wielded a dagger; his right wielded a rapier. Both had gluttoned themselves on both flesh and blood that day. Cotazur’s face lacked any emotion; as did his eyes.

“This wasn’t my fault,” he repeated to himself for the 13 771st time. He had counted. For every time he said it, the world agreed a little more than this hadn’t been his fault. The voices said so.

“This wasn’t my fault.” 13 772.

On the horizon, a crack of lightning revealed a colossal, pillaring silhouette through the red sand on the wind.

“This wasn’t my fault.” 13 773.

“I’m a good person.” 4 156.

From the approaching node, a deep growl rumbled through the ground.

“This wasn’t my fault.”

A crimson shadow in the wind appeared from behind the node, its silhouette revealing several arms, heads and legs.

“This wasn’t my fault.”

Another roar signaled the monster’s charge. A ten-armed, twenty-legged beast with four heads and eight jaws fell down upon him from the hill of the node. The monster got the first strike, descending on the god in his guilt-tripping trance. Three arms slapped Cotazur to the right, sending him flying several hundred metres. A crater formed around the man and he pushed himself slowly to his feet again.

“It… It wasn’t my fault…” He coughed up bloody phlegm. “I didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

Tremors rocked the earth as the monster barreled towards him. Cotazur’s trance still had him trapped, but his rage was beginning to sense its direction. His eyes filled with a ravenous fury that would see his clothing even redder than it already was.

“That, that fucking whore… She tricked me. That fucking pussy, he tricked me… They all, they all fucking tricked me. Over and over, and over, and over…” He kicked off against the beast and jabbed the dagger up into the roof of one of the beast’s eight mouths. The creature screamed and closed the jaws around the arm in question. Cotazur grit his teeth and snarled, jabbing the rapier into one of the other four heads as best he could, but the god was outarmed, outlegged and outmouthed. His left leg was caught in another mouth, and his right arm was grabbed by four arms which proceeded to pull with the might of three elephants. Cotazur squealed in agony and managed to kick one head hard enough to break one jaw, but that wouldn’t help him much.

“FUCK! You… Piece of…” He retracted his right arm as best he could, but even divine power could hardly combat four, now five, six arms pulling in the opposite direction. “RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” In a desperate shift of momentum, Cotazur carved the dagger in his left hand out through the head it had been stabbed through and, getting just the element of suddenness that it needed, carved off the fingers of four out of six arms holding his right. The monster’s grip slipped, partially lubed by all the blood, and Cotazur’s right arm was free, though dislocated to the point where he couldn’t use it. Still, with one arm free, he swung it back and used the momentum to charge up a better kick, breaking the jaw holding his left arm. The monster stumbled back, now down three out of eight mouths and beginning to seriously contemplate running to lick its wounds. In its agony, it dropped Cotazur to the ground. The god, riding on pure adrenaline despite a dislocated arm, a nearly chewed-off arm and a broken leg, jumped at the monster again, though with much less vigour. His right arm could still move, so with it, he grabbed the rapier still stuck inside one of the heads and just started stabbing furiously.

“I AM INNOCENT! I did nothing wrong! I did nothing wrong!”

His hand conjured forth an axe and he switched to a chopping motion.

“I did nothing wrong! It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t my fault!”

The axe grew bigger and heavier, yet it still kept up its speed. In fact, the speed increased as the chops grew bloodier.

“Wasn’t my fault! Wasn’t my fault! Wasnmyfault! Wasnmyfault! Wasnmyfault! Wasnmyfault! My-FAULT! My-FAULT! My-FAULT! My-FAULT! FAULT! FAULT! FAULT! FAULT! RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

The pulp remains of the monster were being dug several metres into the ground by the ceaseless chopping. The axe blade was the size of a fully grown man, yet Cotazur swung it with such speed that one could mistake him for chopping carrots. Only after a full hour, when the hole was a half kilometre deep and the monster long since had been ground up finer than the sand on the wind, did Cotazur stop chopping. Within a minute, the axe had shrunk down to a simple hatchet. Empty eyes studied the ground, almost searching for the remains of his foe which could not be said to exist anymore. Any and all traces were completely and utterly gone. He was victorious.

A small smile cracked across Cotazur’s red-stained face. A small chuckle escaped him.

“... hehehe…”

He slowly began to ascend from the hole, his laugh intensifying over the coarse of the journey.

“... Ahahahaha…”

He dragged his useless leg behind him like a pulk. He ascended the hill on which the node stood and placed his hand upon it. In that instant, the sands on the wind fell to the ground; the green clouds parted to reveal a glorious sun bathing the land in nourishing light; the black dunes of sand turned to endless green, forested lowlands intermittently interrupted by small hills and cliffs before rising to the sky in the south in the form of colossal white mountains; in the far distance, the raging seas became tranquil shores with long, pearly beaches. In a final hurrah for the tumultuous waters, great fjords carved into the land and mighty rivers flower outwards from the taller inland areas.

Cotazur gazed around the hill of green grass and the forests extending for miles down to the sea and up to the mountains. He ushered a final “hah” before he dropped his axe to the ground and collapsed again.

“I am…” He coughed more blood. “... Flawless.” Then the world blackened again.

Summy baka!

Cotazur wakes up in a cave. Someone has nursed him back to health. A girl enters the cave with some soup. Cotazur doesn’t know how to behave, so he tries to very awkwardly prevent her from leaving until he’s said thank you and given her a hug. During the hug, he breaks her back and kills her instantly. When her father comes to check up on her, he kills her too. Then he kills the whole village.

Fast forward to later and Cotazur is approaching node 23 all bloodstained. There he encounters a monster which beats the shit out of him. He eventually gets the upper hand and makes an OP ass axe that he uses to chop the monster out of existence. He then caps node 23 and passes out again.

Moight!

3 might - Made “Flawless” - an axe that, upon tasting blood, becomes lighter (except to the one receiving the blow) and larger, allowing the user to chop faster and harder with every chop. WARNING: Excessive chopping traps the user in a berserking stance.
Remaining: 1 might.

Node 23 biome

Node 23 is a coastal lowland in the north with temperate forests and a tall, alpine mountain range in the south with snow-capped peaks and white-powdered pines. The border with node 18 flows seamlessly from grass to forest, while the border with node 26 is largely made cumbersome by the tall mountains.

Crucible of Gods - A New Divine RP

Birth - The First Mistake

Upon the death of Peninal and the birth of the new gods, Cotazur had existed. In fact, he had been brought to life and limb in the very same instant as his peers. However, before any sentience had kicked in for the gods, including himself, there had been just a handful of seconds - a slow inhale’s worth of time - when instinct had occupied the whole of the mind. In that brief moment, hardly enough time for any newborn, god or not, to process any sensory input, the instincts of Cotazur had sent him running off with divine speed. At that moment, he hadn’t even considered why he did it - after all, he hadn’t had a mind to think with. But the very second after, when all the gods’ minds had settled neatly inside their heads and the first voices began to speak, Cotazur was hiding behind a nearby boulder.

Why in the world was he here, he had thought. He should have immediately gotten up, walked back to the rest and pretended like nothing had happened. But how could he? What would they think of him if he did that? What would he say if they asked? How would he even present himself? “Cotazur the Magnificent”? “Cotazur the Proud”? Just “Cotazur”?

A sharp C-A-W shook something deep within him. No, no, no, this wasn’t the right time to get up. They were, were, were obviously discussing something very important - yes. He wouldn’t want to interrupt that.

But wait, wasn’t he also important? In fact, he could hardly think of anyone more important that himself! Why, he demanded, was he not over there right now, proclaiming his greatness for his future admirers? Yeah! Why?! He had decided. He would get up and demand their attention.

A grey-maned head peeked over the boulder just in time to see a maddened female rip teeth out of a corpse with an ear-shattered snap. No! No, no, no, no, no, no, not yet, not yet. Holy fuck, these people were crazy! What sort of person - no, creature - just up and rips out a tooth from someone, even if it’s dead? Oh, he’d show her, that demoness - he’d rip her teeth out some day!

Cotazur slapped himself across the face with a mighty clap. Then he dove to the ground and covered his head under his arms. Fuck, had they heard him? He went quiet as the grave for ten solid minutes. He heard a long, polite monologue of sorts, followed by some curter responses and, finally, the gentle growl of some large entity. It was at this point when Cotazur dared peek over the edge once more. The crowd had grown smaller, and beside the colossal black pole that everyone seemed to fuzz so much about, there stood a colossal three-necked monster - a demon of unspeakable evil, exponentially more damned for every head on its scaley form.

The man curled up in complete silence again, at least to an outside viewer. Inside his head was a chaotic forum of voices. This was surely Hell, masked by innocuous green hills and blue skies. Oh yes, that had to be it. Yes, yes, yes - the voices were in agreement.

One amongst the forum proposed a most logical segue: Hell though it may be, it was clear he had been sent here for a purpose. The voices hummed in agreement, oh yes, oh yes. This was to be his moment. He knew how great and mighty he was, Cotazur - the Cotazur. He had barely been alive for an hour and already he knew his purpose, his mythos, his legend. His was a fate of glory, and it would start by uniting those madmen by the pillar against this tremendous threat.

He cast another glance over the edge. Some enshrouded cloud with a lantern was addressing the nests of filthy bipeds around the pillar. Alright, perhaps now was the right time. Fuck that stupid fart in a dress - he would speak and be heard, damn it!

“Attention, everyone! You need not fear that disgusting, abhorrent beast before you! Your saviour and salvation stands here in the flesh, and you can already no doubt–...”

No, that was stupid, he judged.

”Attention, everyone! You need not… Fear not!”

Fear not, yeah, that was better.

”Attention, everyone… Everyone - KNEEL!”

Yeah, he would enter with power. Make it known to all that he was in charge. HIM. Cotazur! Cotazur the Mighty, the Magnificent, the Magnanimous, the Masculine, the Most Serene…

The knock of stone against stone shut up the voices in his head. Shit, they had found him. They had found him and someone was dropping a mountain on his head. He tightly shut his eyes and awaited the end. An hour passed, over the course of which his breathing grew increasingly erratic. By the sixtieth minute on the dime, his eyes snapped open again. He had survived. Quivering eyes turned skywards to find no mountain on a descent towards him, yet he could not seem to still his breath.

They had tricked him. Yes, that’s what had happened: They had tricked him with some kind of spell. What craven would await its faith weeping and pissing itself in the grass behind a rock like some, some, some craven?! They would pay. By all this world’s powers, they would fucking pay.

In his hand materialised a giant claymore, almost as long as he was tall. He tossed himself on top of the rock and screamed,

”I WILL END YOU! I WILL FUCKING END EVERY FUCKING ONE OF YOU!”

He kicked off and charged at the pillar, squealing like a stuck boar. Behind him, his cape followed him like a batallion of horses. Rage clouded Cotazur’s every visual nerve, shrouded them to the point where he could not in fact see that he was pathetically alone, save for one giant hydra peering at him with concern. Yet Cotazur’s charge showed no sign of slowing down; in fact it sped up. So the hydra did as any sensible creature would do and untwirled two of its heads from around the pillar to assume a wary combat stance.

Cotazur had begun to observe it. He saw it clearly - he knew he was charging at a giant the size of a hill. Yet he could not stop. He had, after all, proclaimed that he would fucking end it - to turn tail would look stupid. So he charged on, swinging his sword in the air like branch on the wind.

”DIE, BEAST–!”

Glomp.

One of the heads consumed the god’s torso in a small nibble, picked him up and threw him some distance away. Cotazur tumbled across the grass with whimpers and coughs, rolling to a final stop at the edge of the hill. Shocked and tired, his head lifted from the ground, brown and dusty with dirt, to behold his adversary who mostly just looked to feel sorry for him. He tried to push himself up, but found that he was bleeding. A weak hand rubbed at his abdomen to find a deep cut as though from a blade. Ignoring the claymore that laid bloodsloshed some distance away, Cotazur pointed a dooming finger at the hydra.

“You… You monster… You have wounded… Me…” He felt his vision blur, but pushed through the pain and crawled to a high squat. “This… This isn’t over… I will… I will end you, and I will show this whole world that I am capable of… Of…” The blood loss overpowered him and Cotazur tumbled down a hill yet again, the world fading to black.

Sumsum

The second the gods were created, Cotazur’s instincts gave him an anxiety attack and sent him hiding behind a rock. He spends literally hours trying to agree with the voices in his head about when and how he’s gonna make his entrance, but is interrupted by 1) Eleanna giving the dead guy postmortum dentistry, 2) Benea making the hydra (very scary) and 3) Xavior making a tomb.

All of these things terrify him and he eventually reasons that the reason they terrify him is because they’ve bewitched him somehow. This pisses him the fuck off so he declares he will end them all (everyone’s left by this time, of course) and charges at the hydra. The hydra picks him off and throws him away because ow, don’t want him to hit me with sword, which turns out to be a smart move ‘cuz the sword is so sharp that when Cotazur lands on it during his fall, he gets a deep wound. He proclaims his wish to murder the hydra before passing out a rolling down a hill.

Moight

1 might - Create All-Ender, a claymore of almost 1,60m that is so sharp that it can cut stone as easily as one cuts flesh.

Crucible of Gods - A New Divine RP

Cotazur

Name: Cotazur

Form:
Cotazur takes the shape of a man of average height, early in the eve of his days as characterised by his gray hair and wrinkled features. A well-kempt and smooth-cut mutton chop beard trails his jaw and bridges across his upper lip, exposing a strong, cleaven chin. Much more skin is hardly visible on the man, as the rest of his body is covered in a marine blue overcoat of cotton over a mighty cuirass yet over a long mail underskirt. A striking ribbon of red velvet upon white silk cuts across his torso from right shoulder to left hip, and gleaming cold rims every corner and strip of his armour - the hips and shoulders themselves protect themselves with thick plates. Down his back, Cotazur sports a cumbersome, overflowing cloak of silvery fur from a magnificent beast of legend.

Pic related

Personality:
Every inch of Cotazur’s form radiates authority. With a silhouette as broad as a boar and a scowl as harsh as the winter, his presence alone would bring the silence of a graveyard to the rowdiest of feasts.

Except that’s about where his authority ends - if it even reaches here at all. Cotazur commands no crowd with his voice - it is small and unconvincing, while his words are grand and empty. Even with divine power, Cotazur cannot seem to do anything right - his ravenous ambition is constantly sabotaged by his inability to communicate properly with others. He knows well what a failure he is, and it irks him to no end. He is therefore quick to snap at his peers and even exercise violence in want of other ways to express himself - and violence, he has learnt, usually gets you whatever you want.

Will:
Cotazur has the Will of Glory. Cotazur wishes to be heard, to be seen, but it runs deeper than that: His deepest desire is for people to recognise him for something other than his endless mistakes and to worship him for his successes. However, this will twists and ferments in his impatience, and his yearning for glory may lead him on a bloody path of conquest and despotism if that’s what it takes.

Had Cotazur ruled all the nodes, then maybe this would have sated his inner desire; maybe this would have been some form of victory that people would recognise him for. That is, if there are any left by the time he’s done.

Favorite Color:
Burgundy

Crucible of Gods - A New Divine RP

Cotazur

Name: Cotazur

Form: Cotazur takes the shape of a man of average height, early in the eve of his days as characterised by his gray hair and wrinkled features. A well-kempt and smooth-cut mutton chop beard trails his jaw and bridges across his upper lip, exposing a strong, cleaven chin. Much more skin is hardly visible on the man, as the rest of his body is covered in a marine blue overcoat of cotton over a mighty cuirass yet over a long mail underskirt. A striking ribbon of red velvet upon white silk cuts across his torso from right shoulder to left hip, and gleaming cold rims every corner and strip of his armour - the hips and shoulders themselves protect themselves with thick plates. Down his back, Cotazur sports a cumbersome, overflowing cloak of silvery fur from a magnificent beast of legend.

Pic related

Personality: Every inch of Cotazur’s form radiates authority. With a silhouette as broad as a boar and a scowl as harsh as the winter, his presence alone would bring the silence of a graveyard to the rowdiest of feasts.

Except that’s about where his authority ends - if it even reaches here at all. Cotazur commands no crowd with his voice - it is small and unconvincing, while his words are grand and empty. Even with divine power, Cotazur cannot seem to do anything right - his ravenous ambition is constantly sabotaged by his inability to communicate properly with others. He knows well what a failure he is, and it irks him to no end. He is therefore quick to snap at his peers and even exercise violence in want of other ways to express himself - and violence, he has learnt, usually gets you whatever you want.

Will:

Cotazur has the Will of Glory. Cotazur wishes to be heard, to be seen, but it runs deeper than that: His deepest desire is for people to recognise him for something other than his endless mistakes and to worship him for his successes. However, this will twists and ferments in his impatience, and his yearning for glory may lead him on a bloody path of conquest and despotism if that’s what it takes.

Had Cotazur ruled all the nodes, then maybe this would have sated his inner desire; maybe this would have been some form of victory that people would recognise him for. That is, if there are any left by the time he’s done.

Favorite Color:
Burgundy

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

The Schnapps Trade

Evoker & the Rómssa

---

The eastern mesas of the Varia provided good shelter against the northern winds, and despite the childans’ natural resistance to the cold, they needed to be wary of the elements nonetheless. The Rómssa, as the group in the Hárstákki caves referred to themselves, had moved away from the heartlands of the tundra and settled here, where they were safe from both the cruel weather and roaming bands of wound-up men seeking wives by any means necessary. Here, the women had developed a method of, if not actually warming themselves, at least warming their bellies. In the tundra mires to the west and the lowland wetlands to the east, a plethora of sour and sugary berries sprouted throughout the spring and summer. Chief among these and the most coveted by the Rómssa was the cloudberry, the gold of the tundra: these berries were often sour, but the tartness was quickly overtaken by a sweetness and a round finish that could never be replicated in other crops of nature. The berry-pickers of the Rómssa who returned with even just a small pouch of these berries would be treated as an equal of the band leader - in practice taking over as leader - and many would do their best to convince the picker in question to share with them the secret of where they picked - never would a picker share such a dear secret. Like a secret technique passed down through generations, the secrets of the cloudberry locations were passed from mother to daughter and no one else. The women of the Rómssa would on occasion bring trusted friends along, but only to ensure that their rivals wouldn’t dare spy on them, and even then the friends would be left a good distance away from the actual spot to stand guard.

Why were cloudberries so coveted, though? Sure, a nice berry to snack on in the late summer was always nice, but surely they couldn’t be all that interesting on their own. While saying this out loud would surely get you the whole band on your neck, there was a motive behind the picking beyond just eating the berries. The Rómssa did not have much in the grand scale of things, but they had their caves and they had a basic understanding of pottery. In some of their deeper caves, there existed the perfect environment for brewing the band’s most important source of joy and trade income: schnapps.

Rómssa schnapps was a surprisingly strong, spiced alcoholic drink which could be brewed from anything remotely sweet. The berries would be crushed by foot in baskets so that the juice poured out over the cave floor. The women had chiseled small channels in the stone floor leading to a small drop deeper into the cave, under which they placed pots to catch the runoff. The berry juice would then be boiled over a fire and spiced with the plants of the warmer southern wetlands: hops, angelica and caraway seeds. The spices not only provided very welcome flavour nuances to the wine, but also had extraordinary medical properties: Angelica treated coughing and diarrhea; caraway stimulated fertility and warded off curses and evil spirits; and hops warded off disease and calmed the nerves and hearts. Finally, the mixture would be stored in pots deep within the caves and left there to age and develop its character.

And no other berry cooperated better with these flavours than the cloudberry. This made cloudberry schnapps a substance more coveted than gold among the Rómssa - and among their rivals.

It was late summer. Sákka and her young daughters Súnna and Máddji, whom she had respectively had with a mysterious hunter from the forest and a charming wandering soothsayer - sat inside the cave stirring in a pot of boiling juice - cloudberry juice. The delicious scent could almost outcompete the thick smoke from the fire. Súnna paid close attention to her mother’s technique, mimicking it with movements through the air; little Máddji was too young to understand much of what was going on, so she had been given a stick of angelica to snack on. This would be the eighth pot Sákka had made this summer - her ancestral cloudberry patches had bloomed like never before. The other seven pots sat safely within their storage cave, vaulted behind a door of reeds sealed and hidden with magic. Such a seal was necessary when it came to cloudberry schnapps - its taste was as close as the average Rómssaing came to divinity - and stealing had occurred in the past, usually resulting in the cutting of someone’s tongue.

But recently, a strange, foreign entity had come to the Rómssaings for their wine…

The quick patter of feet signalled an approaching figure from behind. Without casting a glance away from the intensive process of stirring the boiling juice, Sákka said, “Who’s there?”

“Sister,” came the voice of Sákka’s younger sister Uksáhkká. Sákka afforded her a small glance, but even in the darkness of the cave, she could see in the flicker of the flame the sheen of sweat all over her body. She furrowed her brow and asked,

“Is something the matter, sister?”

Uksáhkká looked to be frowning. “I wouldn’t call it a problem, but… They have come back.”

Sákka frowned back. “Who’s come back?”

“The ones they call the Primes… They have come for more.”

Sákka let out a vexed growl and wiped her sticky hands on her fur tunic. “By the Father Spirit, they were just here! How thirsty can these wicked people be?” Uksáhkká offered her a shrug. They then each grabbed a fur that was lying in a pile nearby, took hold of each side of the ceramic pot and gently lifted it off the fire and onto a black-burnt pelt on the floor. Sákka stomped out the fire and said, “Súnna, bring your sister somewhere and go play, okay? Mommy will be back soon.” Then she turned to her sister and the pair headed for the cave exit.

Outside in the clearing in front of the cave, most of the band had gathered, some warily armed with stone spears and others keeping a safe, yet non-threatening distance. At the front stood the leader Helve Two-Teeth, an ageing crone, negotiating humbly with the group of small metallic creatures before him who probably all measured at half the leader’s height at most. Their shapes differed quite a bit, some of them were sharp and dark while others were round and bright, but they were all made of metal and light.

“... Yes. We Require Caraway And Hops. How Many Units Can You Provide, Childan Leader Helve Two-Teeth?” Said the foremost Prime, its voice stiff and rough and flat. It spoke with no movement coming from its body whatsoever while its two spear-wielding companions stood to either side of it with their smooth glassy faces blinking yellow. The leader sighed.

“As I said, you will have to be more specific: Is a unit the seed and pod by themselves or are you requesting pouches of the stuff? We can offer you both, but the answer as to how many will vary depending on what volume you have in mind.” She sucked on one of her two teeth.

The Prime’s face flashed red for a second, until it came back to yellow. “Error. We Require The Traditional Beverage We Traded For In The Past. With More Caraway And More Hops. Can You Produce Pots Of The Requested Beverage?” One of the Prime’s companions, one with particularly feline-like ears, twitched while its face flashed pink.

The leader sighed again. “Look, if you want schnapps, you can have schnapps - it’s been a tough summer, though. We only have a little to spare this time.” He snapped his finger. “Eijá! Go and find our guests some of our best produce.” A young woman hurried into the caves with two others in tow. Meanwhile, the crone turned back to the Primes and said, “So you’ve gotten the taste for schnapps, is that so? What, uh, what do you like the most about it?”

The foremost Prime’s face flashed yellow for a few moments, the machine almost appearing frozen. After a few more moments of this, one of its companions patted it on the head, which forced it to twitch and step back. The one who had tapped it was a rather feminine-looking one, with triangular mock-ears on top of its head and lithe, slightly worn down parts. It bowed a little, the movement unusually smooth for someone of its kind.

“I apologize about that, his Uplifting Ceremony was held only a few weeks back, so he doesn’t quite know how to use his body yet. I am the female One named Evoker, Leader Helve Two-Teeth.” Said the cat-like Prime, her voice sweet and full of intent unlike her newer, shinier brethren. “To answer your question, we Primes have not tasted the schnapps Beverage. We obtain it in the name of the Boss and distribute it to worthy Astalonian Homurans as we wish. The kitties tell us that they enjoy the warmth in their abdomen and the releasing of their inhibitions.”

The leader furrowed her brow. “Is that so…? Well, I suppose that is as good a reason as any. We’re no strangers to eager customers, but I hope we may be so rude that we may ask for a better deal now than last time. The food your delegation offered was, if I may, downright inedible.” She gestured to a pile of metallic scrap in the corner of the clearing.

Evoker only gave the pile of scrap a short glance before focusing back on the crone. “My apologies, Leader Helve Two-Teeth. What do you wish from us in exchange for the schnapps Beverage?”

“Some proper food,” the crone said with a wagging finger. “We would like meat of mammoth and grain of barley; whatever roots and fungi you come over as you gather this would also be fantastic.” The other Rómssaings nodded along in agreement.

Evoker’s visor turned off for a few moments, until it turned back on and settled on blue. “Leader Helve Two-Teeth, The Boss is interested and has offered a rebuttal. We are not able to offer the items you requested at this time. We can offer two Second Generation Prime Astalonians to aid you in your hunts and gathering efforts for a period of Ten Years, as long as you provide custom-made schnapps Beverages on a regular basis as well as aphrodisiac concoctions. Keep in mind our two agents will have to return to headquarters every year for refueling unless you can provide a suitable source of Aethelic Energy for them. Do we have a deal?”

The childans looked puzzled at the words spewing out of Evoker’s throat. Sákka leaned over to her sister and whispered, “What aphrodisiac concoctions?” The crone seemed to follow the same line of thought:

“I, uh, I must say I don’t quite follow - the order of schnapps, I can get, but the subject of aphrodisiacs, you will have to take up with my sister, our shaman. Is Ristinn here?”

“She’s out picking herbs and digging for roots,” came a swift response. The chieftain frowned.

“Say, have the homurans purchased this aphrodisiac from us before? What was it like? We might be able to find some for you here and now to verify if it was that.”

“I cannot confirm what ingredients the aphrodisiac concoction contained as it was a different Prime who purchased it, from a different group of Childan no less. Do you know of the female Prime Astalonian called Knuckle, Leader Helve Two-Teeth? Have you come across her? She has been missing for some time, so we do not know what Childan group she purchased it from. The Boss requires as much aphrodisiac as you can provide.”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” the crone confessed. “If we do not know what this aphrodisiac is, though, I cannot in good faith make any promises that we’ll be able to provide it. I hope you can understand. How about we settle on the schnapps in exchange for meat to begin with, hmm?”

“Agreed. These two will be your assistance for the next ten years,” Evoker nodded towards the other two Primes present, “They’ve yet to choose names, therefore I hope you can guide them in this regard. About the schnapps Beverages, the Boss would like two deliveries a year of at least two five liter pots. Would it be acceptable with you if we came by for collection at the end of Summer and Winter, Leader Helve Two-Teeth?” Evoker leaned her spear against her shoulder and lifted her hand up to try and shake the Childan’s, despite the sheer size difference. The crone scratched her head.

“Can’t say I know what a litre is - is it a term to denote volume? I reckon it’d be large pots since you ask for them twice a year, and that would be doable: Five large pots. However, let’s take it back to the timespan of the trade deal. Please take no offense, but we have only traded once before, and that did not go so well for us. I therefore request that we start with a smaller deal than one spanning ten winters. I’m not sure if I will even be around in ten winters’ time; wouldn’t want my band to inherit something that - again, no offense - could backfire on us. What say you if we instead start with one year’s trade, hmm? You may come this winter and next summer to collect, and we will welcome the help of your two Primes for the same period of time. Agreed?”

Having not lowered her hand at all during the Chieftain’s spiel, Evoker replied. “Agreed, Leader Helve Two-Teeth. As a way to clear our name, we will not collect any schnapps Beverages today and we will bring you a gift worthy of your patience this coming winter. Would you prefer a tool, a weapon, or progress?”

The childans exchanged looks and the leader turned to her colleagues with a shrug. Upon turning back, she mumbled, “Would it be possible to be a bit more specific?”

“By ‘progress’ we’re referring to knowledge on more efficient procedures and tool-making that you could use to manufacture more units of schnapps in a shorter period of time.” Evoker explained, lowering her hand. ”Sponsored by the Boss, provided by Astalonian Homurans.”

“Then, uh,” she began and turned to her fellow bandfolk. “Alright, show of hands: a tool?” A few raised their hands. “A weapon?” Considerably more hands. “Progress?” A couple of hands, but many seemed to be on the fence.

“Not sure what part of our technique could be improved - the amount of schnapps is rather more dependent on the Father Spirit’s bounty, innit?” came an argument followed by hums of agreement.

“I concur,” said the crone and turned to the guests again. “If it pleases, then, we ask for a weapon in exchange for the schnapps.”

Evoker stared at the chief for a moment, then nodded and offered her hand again. “It is settled, Leader Helve Two-Teeth. The Weapon will be delivered as soon as possible.” Evoker then looked at the other two Primes, her face flashing purple, and then back at the Chieftain. “It is customary to shake hands once business is concluded, Leader Helve Two-Teeth. It is a show of good faith.”

The crone nodded and approached with a large hand held out in front of her, which Evoker took and shook. “Then let our mutual faith be good,” wheezed the crone cordially through the pain of iron limbs squeezing her fragile bones. Upon completion of the gesture, she wafted her hand as discreetly as he could and drummed on her chin with the fingers of the opposite one. As she did, the young woman she had sent for some schnapps earlier returned with a head-sized ceramic jug. “Say, why don’t you take this to those homurans - as our own show of good faith.” Helve took the jug from Eijá and handed it to Evoker with both hands. “It’s red currant schnapps, picked summer last. They’ve had good time to develop their flavour, I think - I pray our friends in Astalon will feel the same.”

“I’m sure they will, Leader. Thank you for this generous gift.” Evoker agreed, slinging her spear over her shoulder until it locked in place with a loud clank, then grabbing the jug with both her arms without much issue. “One last thing, Leader. May I ask you a final question?”

“Mmm? Yes?”

“Have you or your people dealt with a particularly deadly strain of fungus infection, with the capability of bringing back the dead?”

The whole band fell dead silent. Helve drew a slow breath and turned around halfway, beckoning towards the rest of her people. “Would someone see if they could find… that?” A group of four headed towards a tent at the far end of the camp. The crone turned back and nodded slowly. “Aye… Some months back, our Biijá went out looking for her sister, Tuá - Father Spirit guide her lost soul. She had been missing for the whole day, picking berries in the marsh. Biijá looked for her for a week before her corpse was found in the bottom of a ditch beneath a cliff…” Some huffs of sorrow hacked from the back. Many left the semicircle out of fear that their hearts would succumb to despair. The crone could barely hold the tears away herself. “Now, now, the Father Spirit taught us that death awaits us all in the end - our land is a paradise one day and a den of wolves the next. Only Tuá hadn’t left us after all - at least, her body had not. Biijá was on her way bringing her home, but… Halfway there, she says, she reawoke from the dead. At first, she was beside herself with joy, but she was only her sister in body - inside, an evil spirit had taken refuge.” A sinister nod. The crone clutched a talisman about her neck. “Biijá managed to escape through a miracle of the Father Spirit - a winter light descended to whisk her away in the nick of time. She lost a leg to the monster, but at least she kept her life.” She thumbed over to a woman sitting some distance away on a rock, one leg missing. She looked distracted, or empty, rather, staring into a campfire searchingly.

“I understand, Leader. To confirm, was the hijacked corpse of Tuá left to roam the woods? Is it still out there? Was that the first time you had such an encounter?”

“Aye,” said the crone. “It isn’t Ristinn’s first time, though - our shaman. She’s seen its like before many years ago, which is how she managed to deduce that an evil spirit had overtaken Tuá’s gentle form. I would show you to her, but she is still out.”

“No need for that, Leader. We did not expect to come across the Hivemind here but as per our duty, we will attempt to cleanse the area. Your Prime Assistants will hunt down Tuá’s body and cleanse it of the infection so that she may be given a proper burial and will keep a look out for increased rates of infection amongst flora and fauna. Be very careful, Leader. This infection has been causing trouble in the south for years now.” Evoker adjusted her grip on the jar of schnapps and curtsied. “I will take my leave now, Leader. I will return bearing gifts within the month.” She declared and walked into the trees.

This summoned forth a bow from the crone as well as everyone else who were still present. “Thank you, good Evoker. May the Father Spirit guide your way safely!”

Summary

The Rómssa tribe of Childan women is doing day to day stuff until the Prime Astalonians show up, apparently for the second time in a row, to attempt to trade for schnapps, one of the Rómssa’s unique products which also happens to be a somewhat medicinal alcoholic beverage.

The negotiations are somewhat long, made more difficult by the fact that the first negotiator was a second generation prime who wasn’t used to their body. It all goes smoothly once Evoker takes over and offers a weapon as a gift of good faith. After some discussion they settle on a deal: The Rómssa would deliver five large pots of Schnapps twice over the next year while both of Evoker’s second generation assistants stay with the Tribe and help them with hunting and gathering.

Before they part ways, Evoker finds out that the Rómssa have had encounters with the Fungal Hivemind and Evoker takes it upon herself to direct the Prime efforts to root the local infection out lest it grow out of control and consume the north.

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

The Kings of Ousolu

The Abyssal Templars and the Chief of Chiefs

---

It had been a little over a year now since the Earthen King had broken off the first stone and carved within it a rune to bind a spirit to it, creating the first stonemen - the golems. As He had thrown them to all winds, the Vein of Kraang had flown south - as far as south goes, they said - and ended up on the Ousolus, the chain of islands between Orsus and Terminus that rose and sank with the seasons like the pistons of an Astusian machine. Here, the progenitor of the Vein, Kraang-Shur, had settled on the island of Shyoht-Voli - “Voligan’s castle” - and started constructing fortifications in preparation for the inevitable Yesarian invasion of Orsus to the east from the distant hive lands in the west.

He knew that he could not do it alone, however; the island was large and a single golem could hardly stand against the endless tide of the Hive. So Kraang-Shur got to constructing his fellow guardians. However, the construction took time for Kraang-Shur, and the Shyoht-Voli was an island nearly devoid of exposed and easily accessible rock. This puzzled the stoneshapen Shur, for Shur had only ever known the feel and texture of the mountain he had been spawned from, and as Shur thought the conundrum over, the season had passed and the island of Shyoht-Voli had descended into the depths. Here, light faded into nothing, and the golem was visited upon by many more than just curious birds: Here, fish, cepholopods, mollusks, mammals and seaplants all took time to say hello, taking up refuge all around Shur’s body. At first the golem had felt exposed and naked before so many prying eyes, but as his days of labour began to number tens and even hundreds, he eventually grew to appreciate his new inhabitants. In his solitude, he even named them and made up stories for them to share with their egg clutches.

There was Tef, the nudibranch who had settled in the stone shelves that had approximated themselves into a humpbacked spine at his inception; the Kras, a family of oysters who had filled out his shoulders like a mantle of grayish fur; “the Rash”, an armour of barnacles running down his right arm and leg; and all the seaweed and algae that had greened his whole body, collectively called “the Coat”. Tef was his favourite, a knight of snailkind, aspiring to the same greatness as its house, the golem. One day, the two of them would drown the Hivemind Horde in the ocean.

Given the nature of his microbiome now, Shur chose to remain in the ocean even after Shyoht-Voli rose back up. At first, he lingered around the root of the island, moving between the shore and the depths collecting material to expand his vein: His would be an order of seaborne templars, sworn in the name of the Earthfather to fend off the evil brewing in the southwest. Shur collected rock and stone, shell and barnacle; he gathered mud and slime, bones and cartilage. With these reagents, he fashioned the first of his order: Kraang-Trax. The rune of awakening was carved into the eye of the crustacean giant and the coral-clad warrior awakened to blink at her creator.

“Hail, Kraang-Shur, progenitor of the Vein,” she saluted and bowed.

“Hail, Kraang-Trax, first to be shapen. How are you feeling?”

The crab-like giant moved her limbs slowly, sand and mud diluting into the water around her joints. They seemed agile, powerful, and her crossed eye looked back up at her maker. “I sense strength within my body. My parts lack nothing and I am satisfied. Tell me, master: What is my purpose?”

Shur bowed his head. “To the far west, our enemy gathers its strength. Help me build up our army and together, we shall bring pride and glory to the Earthen King.”

Trax bowed her form downwards and said, “As you wish, my lord.”

---

Many years later, on one of the islands of the Ousolu…

It had been a rough day in the court of Kekoa Kekoa’e Ali’i Nui, the chief of chiefs of the Takahanga Kingdom. The chieftain of Motu Ikaika, Tane Peni’e Kaukau Ali’i’s son, Moana Tane’e Ali’i’e, had gotten into a bloody fight with the son of the chieftain of Motu Iti, Keanu Anaru’e Ali’i’e, and slain him in the violence. Now the Motu Iti chieftain demanded blood money for the actions of the Motu Ikaika chieftain’s son - a life for a life, as the custom was. Tane was having none of this, and the two had sailed all the way to Kekoa’s summer home on Motu Ra-Roa, the most beautiful island to rise out of the ocean in the hotter months. For a week, the two had filled his hall with their bickering, and it did not help that they had brought their families along, who only egged them on from the back. More than once he had had to stop them from drawing weapons and clubbing each other to death.

By all means, the law sided with the Motu Iti chieftain - Moana had killed Keanu and was thus to himself be killed. However, the king had been hesitant - very hesitant. The Motu Ikaika chieftain was his cousin and brother-in-law, and very, very rich. Without the constant stream of wood for boats and coral for weapons from the islands Motu Ikaika and Motu Pohatu - both under Tane’s jurisdiction - Kekoa could kiss his throne goodbye. His whole realm rested on the high chief’s ability to send his warriors to any island in his realm to quell unrest; for that, he needed boats fashioned from Pohatuan palms and weapons from Ikaikan coral. His very flagship, the Ma’man, had been a gift from Tane when he had married the high chief’s sister. No wood for ships? No coral weapons? No Takahanga Kingdom.

Kekoa gnawed his knuckle to the bone cursing himself for not being able to abide by the law, the law of his father Kekoa. His other courtiers grew increasingly impatient; they understood perfectly fine why the king delayed, but they all warned that to break the law was taboo, especially for a king, and would bring grave detriment to his man’ah. Should he side with the injured party, he would lose his kingdom; should he side with his cousin, he would lose his mandate. The Ali’i Nui had not had a wink of sleep for two days - such did the conflict bother him.

On the seventh day, the king called together his court and summoned both chiefs to his audience. Truth be told, he was not certain whether he had truly reached a decision or if any decision would be better than a heart attack at this point. Kekoa gathered the men on the floor before his throne and took a deep breath.

“I have prayed and prayed… For days now… That this feud may come to an end. In Their light, I have reached a decision…” But as he raised his hand to point to the party in the right, a guard shoved aside the bamboo leaf curtain covering the door.

“My chiefs!” panted the guard. One of the courtiers gasped.

“My king! The peasant has broken the taboo and entered into our holy hall!”

“Maui, you daft slug, can you not see he bears a message?!” the king chastised. “Speak your message, guardsman.”

The guard swallowed and swiftly relayed the message, careful not to look directly at the king. “A grave terror has struck our shores, O Son of Gods: a raider horde! Hundreds! Many hundreds! They will be here within the hour!”

All around the hall, the chieftains’ reactions differed wildly: Some took to arms and charged out the doorway; some hastened to pack their belongings and run out the doorway and away from the battle; and most remained to await the king’s orders. The king’s brow darkened, but within him burned a small flicker of relief - yes! An outside enemy to draw the focus away from the blood feud. He got out of his throne, grabbed his trusty club and stormed towards the door, his courtiers flanking in behind him.

But then a hand grabbed his and thee king looked down. It was the chief of Motu Iti, the injured party, who glared him in the eyes and said, “My king! We still have business to settle here!”

Kekoa’s inner flame flared up further with wicked victory. Just what he needed. He summoned forth his deepest, cruelest voice and scowled so that his facial tattoos gave his face a demonic shadow. The Motu Iti chief blinked in fright and loosened his grip, but the king took his hand and squeezed it with cowering strength. “U’ilani, you selfish, little snake!” The chief shrunk two sizes. “That you would use your son’s death to sate your own prideful sense of vengeance, I can just barely sympathise with, but then… But. Then. You have the audacity, the INSOLENCE, to claim that -YOUR- selfish cause outranks the safety - the lifes - of -MY- subjects, who are now being slaughtered on the beach head while we bicker because of -YOU-!” The king slapped the chief to the ground and wiped his hand on his feather regalia. “I denounce your egotistical sense of self-righteousness, you filthy rat. Consider your case annulled!” The king then stormed out. The chief, broken on his knees, looked up in search of support; none could be found. It had been a battle of mandates and the king had won squarely: The king was the gods’ son, born forth from the union of the deepest sea and the highest sky to protect the people of Takahanga, and a petty squabble over who killed who did not even come close to the top of the gods’ sons priority list. A lowly vassal like the Motu Iti chieftain stood no chance.

King Kekoa walked out on a highrise overlooking the beach. As the guard had said, much of the village was in danger of being attacked any moment - black ships had made landfall further up on the island, and a slobbering, rambling horde was charging towards the fleeing populace. The first line of defense had already been consumed by the horde, and the chiefs who had been the first to charge out of the king’s hut were helping with the evacuation and commanding the second line of defense, firing them up by leading a war dance. They roared like wild beasts and bared their teeth and tongues before throwing themselves at the enemy, black beard braids flying everywhere together with clubs and hammers fashioned from coral, wood, teeth and bone. Even a blind dwarf could see that this was a lost battle, however, and not even the earthen skin of the Takahanga dwarves could stand against a tide of monsters numbering in the several hundreds. The king’s face remained dark as he scouted the area, trying to think of a plan.

“... Take the women and children to the ships on the southern part of the island. I will take whatever meat and fish we have stored in the village and lure the hiveminders to the north.” He took Tane by the shoulder. “You will take my sister, my wife and my son to my ship and be ready at a moment’s notice to get off the island. If I am not back by the time the horde has made it within eyeshot, leave without me.”

The king’s cousin hardened his expression, but nodded and stormed off with half the courtiers. The king remained with the other half and then roared, “Well, you heard me! Let’s get going!” The king led his dwarves to the village and raided the food stores for anything the mutants could find interesting. Then, they ran past the horde, around the island, and drew some outliers after them. Then the rest of the horde slowly began to turn as the sun really got to induce the stink of rot in the fish and meat. That was proper food for a hiveminder. Meanwhile, the second line of defense retreated and picked off some outliers on the way.

However, as time went on, it became increasingly clear that the horde was not so stupid as to let the king and his men simply circumvent them. One hiveminder was foolish, but the whole flock formed a fairly tactical consciousness together - they were in fact trying to trap the king. This dawned on the royal party much too late - they had by that point been pushed to the beachhead, and it was the wrong beachhead. No ship laid in waiting for them here. The king initiated a war dance and his party followed fearlessly, but the horde was not dissuaded. They closest in with a macabre slowness that only inspired fear in the dwarves - their voices grew smaller and their gestures lost their wild tempers. Even the king’s inner flame, so empowered as it was by his man’ah grew too small to sustain his stoic demeanour. He whispered softly a prayer for his wife and son as the beasts closed in.

Then, as a godsent miracle, the waters off the beach burst into a flood of salt and foam. The horde and the dwarves were equally baffled, and what stood in place of the water when the foam disappeared inspired fear in both parties. There stood six giants of all sizes - only common description being that they were, indeed, giant: they were of stone, of coral, of bone, of kelp, of teeth and of magic. Neither the dwarves nor the horde had time to reach before the six thundered in over the beach, passed over the dwarves, and started decimating the hivemind horde. Fists barbed with barnacles and spears fashioned from volcanic vents utterly destroyed the biotic horde, soaking the entire beach in blood and gore. The dwarves huddled together in shock and awe - neither stoicism nor bravery could even begin to create a facade in the face of something this sublime.

After the destruction had passed, the six giants formed a crescent around the pile of dwarves. The most stone-like of the giants stepped into the crescent and knelt down beside the heap. In a voice like an earthquake, it spoke in a language that seemed almost instinctively known to the dwarves - the language of the earth itself.

“Hail, brothers, fellow sons of the Earthen King.”

The dwarves untied their huddled knot and let their eyes glaze over in awe. Even the king had no response. The golem continued. “You were lucky that we were here. The spawn of Yesaris may not be much of a threat when it is one-on-one, but a horde like this would have consumed you to the last patch of skin.”

Finally, the king mustered up the courage and man’ah to reply and asked, “Who, who are you, exalted sons of the Stonelord?”

The golem seemed to almost grin at the little dwarf, and the Abyssal Templars presented themselves as such: Kraang-Shur the Progenitor; Kraang-Trax Tideshield; Kraang-Hrel the Living Armour; Kraang-Fram the Brave; Kraang-Droz the Pious; and Kraang-Laksh the Tall. The golem bowed and the dwarves returned the gesture. The king and his courtiers then presented themselves, and it was as though twins who had been separated at birth had come together again. For saving his life, the king promised the Progenitor his favour, and the Progenitor promised the king his loyalty as a fellow subject of the Earthen King. Together, the dwarves on land and the golems in the sea, would create a united front against the wicked spawn of Yesaris, ruling their two realms as the Kings of Ousolu.

Summaree!

Some years have passed since Voligan made the dwarves and the golems. A golem named Kraang-Shur lands in the southern island chain named Ousolu and starts building companions. However, the islands rise and sink, and soon Shur realises that life is better down where it’s wetter. He makes a companion of corals and names her Kraang-Trax. The Kraangs vow to fight all spawn of Yesaris that may try to make its way to Orsus by using the island chain.

Skip to the island dwarf kingdom of Takahanga where king Kekoa struggles with politics at his court. Two chiefs have gotten into a blood feud and the one who’s in the wrong, Tane, is super rich and essential to Kekoa holding the realm together. Luckily, the chaos is interrupted by more chaos in the form of a Yesarian horde invasion! Yay! The dwarves get ready to fight, but it’s an unwinnable fight, honestly. So the king tries to make a distraction by luring the horde away with meat. The horde isn’t actually that dumb, though, and instead outplays the king and traps him on the beachhead without a get-away boat. When all hope has faded, the Kraangvengers pop out of the sea deus ex-machina style and wreck the zombies. The golems and dwarves meet and forge an alliance against Yesaris. Try invading now, parasite bitch!

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

The Voganids

---

Svarog Shellhunter - The Things We Do For Love

---

The dam in the works already looked more magnificent than any construction ever seen or recorded in the Thousand Lakes yet. The construction did not just dam up the river and created a small lake, but it stood twice as tall as it had before, like a grand bridge connecting the opposing sides of the water. The foundation was an impenetrable bedrock of stone constructed from boulders chewed to perfect pillars. The top of the dam had been outfitted with dens and chambers on several floors, and the top was a timber spire stabbing at the sky in honour of the gods. On a floating raft stage behind the dam, priestesses and shamans of all the gods did their dances on a great stage for all to witness, the dam becoming almost like an amphitheatre when they did so. The scenes were illuminated by torches burning with the flames of the Burning Snake-in-the-Air, and fire-priests would initiate the plays in the night with dances in Her honour. Here, stories of the greatness of the gods were told over and over, and the new crowd favourite was the play of how the newest local celebrity, Yaroslaw Boulderbite, conquered the wilderness and its cruel mistress, the Green Murder, and gathered materials with his lieutenant Nolinya to construct the Grand Dam of Voga.

Now the Voganids felt safe for the first time in over a year: Their dam had already been attacked by a bear once smelling sweets within the walls; yet even bear claws could not scratch the stone and clay mortar and break through the outer wall. This new security and peace of mind set the Voganids on other thoughts: Now came the time to recover the prosperity they had had before. With the Rod, food was not a pressing issue, but this left one more important point: Recovering the populace.

In times of crisis, womanbjorks would lower their usually fairly high standards for manbjorks in favour of the survival of the pack and the clan, but this was not the case now, especially among the higher strata of the Voganid society: Luga had not chosen a mate yet, and the suitors were lining up for a chance to be selected as prime consort, that most powerful position of bolshakov. But with the recent rise of great heroes amongst their people, it was no longer enough for a simple manbjork to show how fast he could swim or how few bites it took him to snap a thick twig.

"Hah! I do not know whether I should laugh or cry!" the bolshaya had mocked the suitors. She had then pointed to the exit of her new royal den and declared, "The manbjorks of the Voga have greater skills than biting timber faster than our neighbours! Look to the Mish-Cheechel; look to the Boulderbiter - tell me that those are not worthy manbjorks! Come back once you have made a name for yourselves like they have!"

For most of the manbjorks who left the hall that day, that was the end of their dream to swoon the chieftess. They would return to the woods and continue their lives as woodsbjorks or foragers and likely be selected by a lesser womanbjork after proving their skills in the primary sector. There was one, however, who took the bolshaya's words to heart:

A young manbjork named Svarog.

Svarog hadn't been Voganid for long. During the reconstruction, refugees for a nearby dam that also had been assaulted by agents of the Green Murder had come to the Voga dam looking for a place to stay. The bolshaya Luga had taken them in on the condition that they assimilate into the Rod Clan rather than to vassalise like the Wickertooths had. The clan chieftess, Lada, had bowed down to Luga and fasted under guard until she had grown so thin that she could no longer produce her own scent, as was the custom when submitting to a mightier womanbjork. Svarog had been part of that clan, the Pine Clan, named so after the trees most used in their dam, and he had fallen in love with the bolshaya at first sight. A fat, mighty womanbjork such as her had all the luscious curves a manbjork could ever want, and he was going to win her favour no matter what.

But how would Svarog interpret the command to make a name for himself? Mish-Cheechel was way too far away to mentor him, and even if he was nearby, he might not have wanted to. Could he start his own vendetta against the Green Murder? Nah, that wouldn't be very original - no one likes a whittler copying a whittler. Maybe he could reach out to the Yaroslaw Boulderbite and study advanced construction? Nah, same problem - the sphere of dam construction already had its star, and Yaroslaw Boulderbite and his silver-sheen teeth were unmatched in endurance and strength by anything non-divine.

So maybe he’d hoard a huge treasure for the bolshaya? Okay, now he’d gotten somewhere. No one had tried doing that yet: The Voganid manbjorks were still all about self-sufficiency - a good manbjork ideally needed no clan of his own; he could gather wood, build the dam and serve his womanbjork all without the help of competing males. What if instead of the laborious path to glory, Svarog chose the wealthy?

But what would this treasure for his beloved Luga be, he pondered and thought of a memory: One day during the Reconstruction, a stranger had come to the Voga and begged passage. The guards had held her off with their fire-hardened spears, as was the custom - if you didn’t smell like a Voganid, you had no business by the Voga. And yet the stranger had been granted passage anyway through a powerful spell: The stranger had spoken soft words to the guards and planted shiny charms in their palms - beautiful, brazen shells from the distant sea. “Cowries”, the enchantress had called them, and the guards had been smitten with awe and let her pass, their eyes absorbed by the colour and sheen of the shells. How had the enchanter acquired these shells, many had asked her.

“On the distant beach, there lives a tribe of giant slothmen who always walk on two feet. However, these are not like the sloths who also walk on four legs: These slothmen are with less fur and clearer speech; they hunt in the saltwater as no bjork can, and they collect these shells off the lake floor under the Great Undrinkable Lake.”

This had sparked a brief sense of wonder among the Voganids, but it had quickly passed as the looming threat of attacks by the Green Murder compelled all to work on the dam. Now, it seemed, the event had passed out of memory for most.

Svarog had decided. He would find these slothmen and ask them to give him a basket of these cowries. His bolshaya would surely adore him for that! Svarog the Traveller set off from the Voga later that very same day, armed with a fire-hardened stone spear and loaded with a river reed basket with dried waterplants on his back. He travelled alone, for he had no wish to share his idea with anyone.

The journey was long and arduous, but Svarog was previously of the Pine Clan, and no one in the Pine Clan had ever been caught in the open by wild beasts - he was not about to be the first! The manbjork slept under the carcasses of trees and kept to the river water during the day where few of the land predators could smell him. This was not a perfect solution, as the waters had many dangers as well, and not rarely did he have to kick himself back onto land to avoid the ravenous jaws of an oncoming sturgeon or a bloodthirsty pike. The journey took him nearly two weeks of floating downriver, avoiding predators and circumventing hostile dams, but at long last, a stinky, wet and hungry manbjork by the name of Svarog reached the end of the endless web of rivers, tasting brackwater for the first time in his life. He gagged and climbed onto land the second he could. Here, nature was nothing like at home: Endless giant forests had given way to white beaches full of stinky, black, bulbous lakeweed, and then a blue lake that stretched so far that no little bjork could ever hope to see the other side, no matter how tall they were.

This had to be the Great Undrinkable Lake, Svarog thought and spat out what remained of brackwater in his mouth. Here, he would surely eventually find the home of the slothmen with the shells. He followed the beach for half a day, but it didn’t take long before he became terribly thirsty. The sun wasn’t as strong deep in the woods as it was here, and the sands cooked beneath his four feet. Before long, Svarog had to stop for a break and look for water. He headed into the woods in search of a small brook, but he looked and looked and looked and found nothing. The sun cooked at the surface of his fur, and the little bjork was certain that he would pass out any moment. His movements became sluggish; his eyelids flicked lazily up and down; his tail dragged against the ground like a dull plow.

Then finally, he passed out, and a nearby growl could be heard. Svarog’s instincts tried to fire up, but the bjork was too tired, too weak. Oh well, at least he would die in the service of his lady…

The growls came closer, a crazed, hyena-like cackle and the thundering thump of menacing steps. Svarog faded out of reality and let fate take him.

---

A wash of cold dripped over Svarog’s lips. His eyes were too crusted to open, but his consciousness reawoke and tried to make sense of these sensations. Blimey, had he slept through the summer and into winter?

A menacing wheeze hissed beside him, followed by another quiet rumble. Panic claimed the manbjork’s systems and the little creature tried to muster the strength to escape blindly. It realised then that its body laid in cool water - freshwater. He splashed and tossed, but ten mighty talons hooked around him thick as branches and held him down. Svarog squealed and squeaked, and whatever held him growled back and seethed like water on a fire. Finally the panic tugged his lids free of the crust and Svarog stared a giant in the face - a horror of the woods! The enchantress had spoken true - it was a sloth! An almost hairless sloth! A terrible, vicious, almost hairless sloth! Svarog squealed some more and the sloth, which he now realised there were two of, unleashed a hacking roar that almost seemed to mock him.

The second slothman, much smaller and much less hairy, grabbed Svarog by the fur and clawed him down the back. Svarog tried to slap him with his free tail - the creature cast some more hacking roars his way. The one that held him flipped him over and tried to mutilate his chest with his talons - they scraped and scratched, but thankfully Svarog’s fur, like any good manbjork’s, was thick and dense. Sloth claws like these could do nothing against it - hell, the attack was almost comfortable!

Svarog curled his belly and yapped at the talons, trying to get a good bite in. He missed, though, and the creature understandably snarled, but then also wagged that same digit right in front of him tauntingly, pointing skywards. Why? What was it pointing at? Svarog followed the digit to the ceiling of what looked to be a leathery cave, like the insides of the cloaks that those weird shamans would dress in. The manbjork struggled still against his captor, but to no avail: Its talons were soft and bendable, yet strong as wooden logs. He tried to bite again, but couldn’t reach. Truly, he would be trapped here, and the slothmen almost seemed to be playing with him. What heartless monsters! Couldn’t they just kill him and get it over with?

Then the largest and hairiest of them put him back down in the basin of water. Svarog tried to take the chance to escape and skipped out of the basin, but the ten talons snared around him again and put him back to the sound of a low growl. Svarog escaped again and was put back. That mocking, hacking murmur…

Kha, kha, kha, the two creatures chorused. Kha, kha, kha, kha, kha. Svarog felt smaller, lesser. They kept him here for entertainment, he realised, for who else would store their food like this? The thought sickened him - these slothmen were worse than bears and eagles.

After a while, they left him alone in the cave. Svarog was by himself now, sourly quenching his thirst by sipping the now quite sweaty water in his basin. No matter. He could surely escape this place. He hopped out of the basin and looked around. It was dark here, but dying charcoals in the centre of the cave offered a conservative brightness that allowed him to make out contours. Using his well-developed nose, he felt his way forward to a crack under the cave wall - an odd place for there to be a crack. He didn’t have his spear nor his basket anymore, but whatever - he had to save himself now. Svarog flattened himself against the ground and prepared to squeeze himself out of the crack, but realised quickly that this was no ordinary cave wall at all - this, this was just like fur, like touching the skins that, again, those weird shamans would wear. His eyes squinted at the material - was this cave made out of fur? He then noticed the faint whites of bone arching up towards the centre of the ceiling - mammoth tusks. Svarog shuddered and crawled out.

Outside, it was midday. Svarog heard growling and roaring from behind the mound of fur he had crawled out of - looking over it, it looked like the body of a mammoth if you cut off the head and the legs; like a half-orb of fur. Svarog admittedly had little love for mammoths given that they walked where they pleased and would frequently challenge the strength of dams all around the region, but this? Only shamans did this sort of weird, macabre stuff and wore the furs of other things.

A nearby roar sent Svarog into hiding again. He watched from underneath a fold in the mound a giant slothman pass, a basket in his upper legs (or were they arms?) full of wiggly fish. Fish, huh? Maybe he was still at the shore? Svarog looked around - yup, over there he could see the sheen of the white beach in the distance. Then maybe this could be the land of the cowries?

He tossed another look over to the corner of the mound where he could just make out the edges of another mound and trace the scent of fire. He kept low and snuck around, sticking to the underside of the fur flaps surrounding the foot of the mound he had been in. Thankfully, his brown fur blended well with his hiding spot, so he wasn’t easy to see even in daylight. He just prayed his fur’s sheen or his stink wouldn’t rat him out in the moment.

That was when he saw it: There, right there by another fur mound - a basket as tall as he was, filled to the limit with cowries of all sizes and colours such that many had spilled over and laid in the gravel beneath. Gods, if he could run off with that…

He looked around again. By the place where he could smell smoke, more hacking, snickering growls could be heard. He measured the distance to the basket visually - that was a fairly open space and a fairly long skip. He bit a claw in thought. Could he even lift the basket?

“Oh gods around and above,” he whispered pleadingly, “anyone - how do I take this basket?”

Suddenly, a voice rang out within his mind ”Well, well, another beaver seeking to steal, oh this must be our lucky day.”

Svarog stiffened and cowered underneath the fur flaps. “Gods!” he squealed in a whisper. “Who are you?”

”That is simple, we are Yesaris, and we help, those like you,” A buzzing sound began to grow in the air, and Svarog could notice the slowly growing number of flies congregating around, ”So you wish to steal a basket? And what does this mortal intend to do in return for our aid?”

Svarog gulped. “Th-the basket looks very nice, for sure… I’d, I’d sure like it.” He scratched his cheek in thought. “I, I could give ya some of the shells!” he proposed.

A harsh, chittering cackle was the response ”Svarog, we are a god, we have no need for shiny shells, we are in need of, better offerings and, sustenance.”

The little bjork frowned and licked his incisor. “H-how about I ask one of those weird shamans to offer some meat in your name when I get home, huh? I’ve heard that the gods like that!” He ducked underneath the flap as a slothman passed by and spat a fishbone on the ground next to him with a pft!, flapping its talons at a cloud of flies.

”Hmmm, we suppose that will work, it would be nice to gain an offering finally,” for a moment, the god was silent, as the buzzing flies began to coalesce together, ”Very well, we will help you with this, endeavor, in exchange for speaking of our name and gifting us some offerings.”

Suddenly, the flies all gathered together, buzzing into a singular mass that twisted and shaped as the flies moved about. As suddenly as they began, they flew away, in their place, settled neatly upon the floor next to the bjork, was a long cloak, made of crudely stitched together leather and skin, it would easily fit over his body and shroud his form.

”Take this cloak and put it on, it will allow you to change your form into one that can blend into the environment, letting you get away with your little thefts. Just remember who helped you out with this.”

Svarog took the cloak and packed it around himself. He still had an aversion to wearing fur over his own fur, but this was life or death. He bowed in no particular direction and said, “Ye-yes, You of Many Voices! I won’t forget it!”

”Yes yes, you will not, safe adventures, Svarog.” With that, the voice faded away, and the buzzing flies dispersed, flying off into the distance of the skies above. The little bjork tested the fabric between his fingers - it was dense and coarse, yet loose and patchy. It looked like scrappy work, but it was surely divine, right? He measured the distance again. He, he hadn’t been tricked just now, right?

He let his eyes be seduced by the shells again - how many times had the priestesses ever warned of cruel and misleading spirits? He thought this through: Never, was the answer. The gods, except for the cursed anathema of all bjorkkind, the Green Murder, were good! This had to mean that the Many Voices had to be good, too! So he clutched the cloak and skittered into the open.

…

Nothing. He hadn’t been spotted yet. He kept skittering across the open space. Some of the slothmen even looked directly in his direction and didn’t even squint. He wondered for a minute what form he had taken on in their eyes, but didn’t decide to dwell on it too much. He soon reached the basket and marveled at its size. Okay, it hadn’t been quite as tall as him after all, but it was very close, and it was hnng! heavy! He looked around - still no one had noticed him, but he heard some commotion in the mound he had just come from. Out of the opening, which he could see clearly from this angle, came the smaller slothman and growled something to the larger ones, who seemed to shrug amongst themselves. After some yapping, the smaller one seemed to get one of the larger ones to join it for a look-around. This was not good.

Svarog acted quickly. He lifted the basket with all his might and waddled clumsily into the woods nearby. Again, he had gone unseen, but it was clear his theft had caused more commotion than his escape. He slept in the heaps of moss that night, both him and the basket hiding under the cloak as slothmen with torches patrolled the periphery of his vision. He was still hungry and weak, but now he was so close to completing his quest - if he could just get this basket home, Luga would choose him as her consort for certain!

The journey home took young Svarog a whole month; the heavy basket slowed him down considerably, and it took him almost a week and a half to find his way back to a river he was familiar with. All the while, he foraged the forest for what scraps he could eat and drank sap from birch trees to stave off the thirst. His incisors grew long over the course of the journey, but he never had time to really sit down and gnaw on a good tree; whenever he would take a break to rest, he would cloak himself and his loot, but predators could still smell him and frequently sniffed at his very face behind the cloak when he slept in the woods. Once a boar had gotten a bit too curious and begun digging at his cloak. Svarog had then bitten hard at the boar’s snout and sent it grunting away in a sulk. It was both safer and riskier. When he finally reached the rivers, his travels sped up considerably. He had been nearly out of strength from carrying and dragging the basket along, but now he could float the basket on a raft of sticks and driftwood. Whenever he encountered another dam, he would make landfall and wrap himself and the treasure in the cloak, sneaking around as quietly as possible.

One time, he had circumvented a fairly large dam and found that its inhabitants had stripped much of the surrounding forests bare. This made it hard to find materials for a new raft, so he tried to swim with the basket in his arms. However, this made him much too heavy and he accidentally dropped the basket, which sank like a rock. Svarog spent a whole two days picking up stray shells that had fallen out after he had fished the basket back up - he was certain he had lost many for good.

But eventually, finally, after a month had passed and his body ached like it had been beaten and tortured, Svarog reached the Grand Dam of Voga once again. With the last of his strength, he carried the basket past the guards and the damsfolk, all of whom marveled at its contents, and up to the tallest den on the dam. There, he was helped inside by the bolshaya's guards and managed to squeeze out the words:

"Fuh yoo, mah luhve…" Then Svarog, who had laboured so hard for his love, the chieftess, passed flat out on the mud floor, exhausted and barely alive.

Luga seemed surprised to say the least, and as she descended from her throne of reeds and wood, she ordered, "Medicine! Medicine for my consort!" Priestesses hurried on over with herbs and sapwine as the bolshaya picked up a silver cowrie from the basket and studied it closely. "Marvellous…" she whispered and addressed the closest healer. "Let him rest in my nest while he recovers and make certain he is fed well and often. One such as him who can bring his chieftess a treasure like this…" She smiled from ear to ear and compared the brazen sheen of another shell with her own brown, oily fur. "... He is a true manbjork."

Even though he was unconscious, one could almost detect a slight uptick in the edge of Svarog's mouth. His quest had Been completed. Now he was consort and bound to his love forever.

The Shellhunter, bolshakov, Consort-Lord of the Voga, had been born, and that night, the shamans charred and burnt a whole deer in the name of the Many Voices.

Summaree!

The Voga dam is lit as hell and now that food and shelter are checked off, the next step is to repopulate! Now all the manbjorks are fighting over mates, and no mate is as sought after as Luga, the big chieftess. Luga has standards, however - only the likes of Mish-Cheechel and Yaroslaw Boulderbite are good enough for her. This brings us to Svarog, who thinks about getting her a treasure, as he is neither a warrior like Mish or a builder like Yaro. Svarog remembers a visitor who came to the Voga some time back with cowries and decides to find Luga a shit ton of cowries.

He travels for ages to this mystical land of cowries by the sea. Once he gets to the sea, he passes out from thirst and is found by slothmen (childans), who take him in as a pet. Here, Svarog recovers, but hates being a pet, so he tries to escape. On the way, he finds a basket of cowries as tall as he is and wants to steal it. He is scared of getting caught, though.

In comes Yesaris who grants him a magical cloak that helps him shapeshift. With this, Svarog steals the basket and barely makes it home alive, being weak and hungry for a month. When he eventually gets home, he passes out and is taken in by Luga, who names him prime consort. That night, meat is sacrifised to Yesaris as payment for the cloak.

Vigor costs

Yesaris:
Starts: 9
0(discounted from 1): Create the Cloak of Ticks, a cloak that can allow its wearer to shapeshift their form into an object commonly found in the area. This only changes the perception though and is not a full shapeshift(ie: a Bjork turning into a pebble will still be squishy like a Bjork). Meaning that if someone is dedicated to searching for them, it's not entirely difficult to find them.
End: 9

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

The Voganids

---

Location: The ruins of Dam Voga after the attack of the Green Murder.

---

Ruins. Ruins as far as bjork eyes could see. The raid had indiscriminately shattered stick and log alike. What humble scraps remained of their dam could hardly be called a dam anymore - the reservoir was empty, for the wall had completely broken in three spots. Out of seven dens, four had washed downriver, and nearly a hundred bjorks had been made homeless in less than an hour. The three standing dens were all in various states of brokenness, but at least they held onto their anchors in the river; one of these, luckily, had been the matriarch’s den, and Luga had come out of it to do her best to calm the masses and unite her people once more, standing atop the tallest part of the ruins.

“This is an attack! An attack, it is!” shouted one. “We must follow in the path of Mish-Cheechel the Righteous and bring down this demon!”

Luga waved her hand calmingly, but without a hint of dismissiveness. “I agree from the bottom of my heart, Psief! Those who wish to follow the Avenger, the Bane of Green Murder, may do so! All your families will be honoured and taken care of by the clan, this I swear; however, we must not let anger alone obscure the damnation the Green Murder has plunged us into!” She gestured to the dam around her. “Look at our home - our home! We cannot lose ourselves entirely to vengeance, my people - we first must rebuild!”

“But how? How can we start over from this? Not even half of us have a warm place to sleep!” came another shout.

“Our food stores… So much of it drowned in the river!”

"The White Nights are coming! Snow has been sighted on the treetops! All hope is lost!"

“Death will surely claim us now! We cannot all fit in the dens we have left!”

“Pfah! You hardly know suffering, you Rods! This was every day for us!”

Luga tossed the last speaker a rare glare. “Nolinya, you be silent!”

Nolinya climbed up on the dam so she could be seen better, but dared not climb so high as to challenge the matriarch more than she already was. “Silence is necessary at times, but not one like this, bolshaya! If our people fear hunger and frozen nights so much that they cannot bring themselves to work, then all their fearsome prophecies will surely come to fruition!” She clapped her hands. “Desperate times necessitate desperate measures! Bolshaya! I will take upon myself this task. Let me appoint a master builder and select a group to head upriver. We will gnaw over every tree we can find and float them downwards to serve as material for a greater, stronger dam!”

Luga was about to counter, but she heard the applause of the skinnier bjorks, most of which had until very recently been of Clan Nolin, and saw more and more Rods lose their fervour to protest. Luga sighed and waved her hand. “Then so be it. Nolinya will be in charge of resource gathering and she will appoint for us a builder to oversee the whole construction affair. Name your candidate, boyara!”

Nolinya raised herself on her back legs and cast her hands into the sky. “I nominate Yaroslaw, my finest builder! Yaroslaw!”

A small, skinny manbjork skittered to the front of the crowd. “I hear the call,” he responded. Nolinya pointed to the dam she stood on.

“Can you repair this?”

The builder looked hesitant for a bit. It would be an enormous job, and he hadn’t had time to give the whole structure and overview first before Nolinya had put him on the spot. However, either because he felt the need to help in such drastic times or maybe just to save face, he shouted a firm, “Yes, boyara! With skill and ease!”

Nolinya smiled smugly over at Luga. “Is the candidate likeable in the bolshaya’s eyes?”

Luga furrowed her brow angrily, but said only, “... Yes. See to it that it is done well, Yaroslaw. We are all counting on you.”

---

The rest of that day was quiet with mourning. Corpses were gathered and given their last rites. Their incisors were broken off and tread on thread as an extension of the Clan Strings that now all could bear to remember their fallen ones. The corpses were cleaned and mended where that was possible and wrapped in blankets of woven reeds. Not all of them were, though, as the dam didn’t have enough reeds left anymore. Then, the corpses were burned on a great pyre with the gift granted by the Burning Snake-on-the-Air and crude planks and flat stones were erected in their memory in a nearby marsh. Two dancers of the dead reenacted the Singing Maker’s jig in his Glade to remind the onlookers of the good times, donning red-clayed make-up with exaggerated smiles and copying the steps and erratic kicks and swings of someone who had had too much sappivo, or fermented treesap. A third actress painted her face with a blueish gray clay to look older and went from griever to griever and shared the wisdom and warmth of the Old Bjork in hard times. Even one of the Deepwood Masks, those queer, lonesome lot from the deep forests that followed the teachings of a new god named Bonetooth of the Mask, came to the ceremony with offerings of deer hide and instruments of hollow bone that he clacked together and sang to, blessing Mish-Cheechel and all his followers with luck and skill in their hunt. Many, both kit and grownbjork alike, were initially skeptical and frightened of the shaman, for he had blood in his fur and smelled like a beast. He thus wasn't accepted into the ceremony until later in the day, when the sorrow in his songs and the rhythm of his bones resonated with the growing crowd who at this point was just looking for reasons to vent. Many gathered around the dancing shaman and egged him on, cursing the Green Murder and all her cronies of the woods, and seconding the shaman's blessings over the hunters.

Meanwhile, Yaroslaw sat at the foot of the dam, though the actual foot was much deeper in the water. There, he studied the layers of clay, mud, sticks and logs inside the crushed sections of the dam. He would have to rebuild this and he would have to do it well. But this project was much bigger than anything he had ever worked on. How would he mend something dimensions larger than anything he had ever seen?

“O, Maker, o, whomever may be listening out there… How can I oversee something like this alone? How can I build something like this?”

The gentle scritch-scratching and pitter-patter of small paws on mud and logs could be heard alongside a soft humming, lilting out a sonorous tune in judgement of the dam. Clicking and popping noises joined into the chorus as, up from the back side of the dam, scurried an otter. Wait, was it an otter? The smooth-furred mustelid regularly switched from all fours to walking on two legs and looked all the part the strange love-child of numerous different species, colored and furred and shaped as he was. Eyes that glowed with moonlight even without it present peered down at the wall with intensity enough to start the flood all over again.

”Nt, nt, nt, nt, nt,” came the clicking as the critter hopped up and down for a moment, testing the density of the wall, before crooning his neck to look towards Yaroslaw, ”It’s a start, yes, yes, yes, a start. It lacks a certain finesse but there’s raw talent here, mhm, mhm. There is still learning in you yet, I think, very much so, quite, quite, quite; Yes, very good.”

The chittering-chattering tone of the strange creature filled the air as it repeated itself, clicked, hummed and hawed. In an instant the mustelid-thing hopped onto all fours, darting closer, before following the last few steps on two legs to close the distance with Yaroslaw. One eye, moving on its own, peered off towards Yaroslaw while the rest of the creature’s head craned the other way, to continue observing the work with avid interest.

”Do not worry, my friend, for a builder in need is my friend, indeed. It is so rare for a humble architect like myself to find such wondrous works, albeit somewhat rural, rustic even, left half-done. Or, undone, as it were. Yes, nt, ck, ck, yes; you will not oversee this something alone, for it isn’t a something, but a building, and you are very much no longer alone.”

Yaroslaw sniffed suspiciously - this scent was unlike any he had smelled before - but he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The manbjork trundled to his feet and eyed the otter amalgam-thing, his tail raised over the water in cautious preparation. “H-how you do, stranger,” he mumbled between breaths. “I, uh, I wouldn’t come ‘round here smelling like that. The guard might catch a whiff of ya.” He pointed to the enormous dam. “B-but don’t actually leave, though! Y-you know structures like these?”

”Smell? I wasn’t aware I smelled of anything,” the odd animal mumbled, leaning in to snort at its shoulder before looking back, far more interested in the question than its own scent, ”No; I know ALL structures. A marriage of angles and tensile strengths and aesthetics, really. Absolutely beautiful, really. Yes, yes, nt, nt, nt; I know structures like these.”

Yaroslaw's eyes filled with hope and he cast a glance over his shoulder and to the top of the dam. Smells, or even absence of smells were quick to trigger bjork territoriality, so they would have to stay hidden here in shelter from the wind and pray that it wouldn't turn. He approached the stranger some more and placed a hand on the structure. "You, uh, you wouldn't be in the mood to teach me about them, right? I've been given a quest, a mission like none I've ever received before, and it is to rebuild this dam, but not just like the way it was - the boyara wants it grander, stronger - and you don't disobey the boyara," he mumbled stressfully.

The divine critter looked back to the wall of earth and mud and wood and rock, clearly fascinated by the opportunities. A mind made for far grander designs stacked stone on top of log and brick in his labyrinthine head while the mustelid-thing stood with hands on hips, looking altogether imperious in his designs.

”Yes, yes, we can do that. Don’t disobey, exceed, overcome! Grander, stronger, better; yes, yes, nt, nt. You will be my apprentice on this, so your name may be on it, and I, Lares, shall guide your paws! That way, we build it right.”

The apparently named Lares turned in such a way that his long, fuzzy neck and face had already began in one direction, practically pulling the rest of him along. He snuffled and sniffed and scritch and scratched at the materials he had to work with, looking about with interest. Little clicking noises erupted from his throat that echoed through the vale as he answered a billion questions for himself. One paw waved at Yaroslaw, wiggling enticingly for him to follow.

”Apprentice, come quick; this mud, it is silty but smells of clay. Such a deposit would make for fine mortar! But stone, and timber; these are essential. You have good wood in your wall, well picked; not good enough alone, I think. I commend your building sense, but you will need more. What is the hardness of your teeth, there, and can you appropriately quarry and chisel stone?” Lares said, looking back at his self-proclaimed apprentice Yaroslaw over his shoulder.

The nervous builder followed and scratched his head. “Quarry? Chisel stone? Never heard of no stone in a dam before, unless it’s gravel, I think.” He skipped over a divide in the ruins. “Wait, you mean we need more than wood, dirt and clay?”

Lares waggled his finger with an accusatory side-long glance, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Ck, ck, ck, of course,” he asserted, thrusting the other paw down to lift a river-smoothed stone and presenting it, “Stone makes a good base, strong foundation. Wood pilings keep stable, dirt and mud fill the core. Make the dam bigger, stronger; very good, yes?”

Lares leans in and bites down, teeth tearing through stone like beaver-teeth through wood. He presents it confidently, now shaved down into a notched stone brick. Using a finger, he presents how the stones will lock together, albeit with some awkwardness in his demonstration.

”Behold! We build it right, exceed expectations! A great hall, perhaps? A temple a top? We shall see, nt, nt, nt. Expansions come later, apprentice, do not get too excited.”

Yaroslaw didn’t know whether to pry more or walk away, so he naturally concluded that he should just follow along. “Alright, teacher - I’m all ears. Please teach me your ways!”

Lares tossed the little brick aside and closed the distance on Yaroslaw, looking him up and down with a perfunctory gaze. It was, of course, important to determine the qualities of ones’ apprentice before acting hastily. Finally, one paw shot forward and grabbed Yaroslaw by the incisors, giving them a good look and a firm tug. Evidently accepting of whatever metric he was gauging their quality by, Lares clicked his teeth.

”Good, good. Nearly there. Acceptable tools, but we can do better. New tools would be wasteful, would need to teach you. Better you learn with what you have.”

With his assertion complete Lares flicked his middle finger at Yaroslaw’s incisors, his little claw clicking loudly against the yellowed teeth. A sheen rippled outward from the impact zone like a wave on water and the teeth rapidly changed color to a nearly white pearlescents, replete with almost a metallic gleam in the low moonlight. Content with his work and nodding vigorously, Lares point at the would-be dam once more.

”I will teach you to quarry stone as you chew timber, and we shall build a dam like no other! It will have chambers above for storage and structural support, but we shall address that later! Your Boyara will have her dam, and WE shall build it! How exciting! Now, let us get to work.”

Yaroslaw's eyes spread wide like blossoming flowers and he flicked his own teeth in wonder. "By the Maker! What did ya do to my teeth?!" He licked them and tasted the irony flavour, blinking as though it was candy. "Does, does this mean I can chew rocks?! Ain't no bjork ever done that before!"

Lares clapped pleasantly as he nodded with a deeply satisfied expression, clearly enjoying that the bjork was appreciating his handiwork. His praise of the maker, whom Lares could only assume was the Monarch, only pleased the little critter more. ”Yes, yes, a fine gift, eh? My apprentice shall not work with shoddy tools! Carve stone like lumber, just don’t swallow too much. Now we simply need find our quarry and carve our blocks! The work, my apprentice, can begin! How exciting~!”

---

In the days that followed, Lares and Yaroslaw set to work. With the guidance and divine assistance of his new “master”, Yaroslaw found the endurance and ability to gather the necessary materials to continue the work at a dozen times the pace of an ordinary bjork. Whenever looked in upon the strange deity would disappear, hidden from view or elsewhere other places, making sure it was never Lares but Yaroslaw who was seen doing the labors. During the day they gathered supplies and materials and during, away from prying eyes, Lares did what he does best; build.

The dam, what was originally a simple bjork dam of muck, mud, and timber, expanded under his watchful gaze. Stone blocks, cut by Yaroslaw and divinely transferred to construction locations during the dead of night, we lowered into the soft silt and loam of the riverbed as foundations, interlocking and stacking a top one another while being abutted by thick beams of timber. Criss crossing and interwoven supports were placed, each one finely carved and left bare for later detailing. Over the course of five nights the great dam grew taller and grander and soon reached completion.

Although the structure itself was a point of pride for Lares, so much more work needed to be poured into it. Gentle and subtle carvings were inlaid with claw and tooth and nose, stone shaping with the ease of supple clay. Simple carvings of bjork, of river, of trees and of lakes sprang up across the facade that instantly lit thoughts of home in any bjork that might look upon it. Internal passageways were carved from the bottom up, giving access into the inner workings of the hardy, divinely inspired dam. It was inside that the most work would be set, where comparatively spacious rooms were placed. It would be a comfortable stronghold with breath holes to keep it full of air yet insulated enough to keep all the biting cold away. Finally, a respectable hall was made, enough to hold two dozen or so bjorks comfortably and even more if they didn’t mind rubbing shoulders.

Throughout it all Lares made sure to educate his apprentice appropriately, explaining everything he did. He was, of course, the Majordomo of the Monarch and could not be matched in such things, but he could certainly teach some of what he knew to his apprentice. What good, after all, could come from an apprentice who knew nothing of the work he was meant to do? Each new piece of structure or assemblage was explained, in detail, and the physics therein loosely elucidated upon the bjork apprentice of the God of Homes.

On the sixth night Lares assembled a final piece of the puzzle, easily rigged up onto a slide to be dropped into place. The block, essential for holding back all waters no matter how high, was to be the honor of Yaroslaw’s to place. With a simple wooden beam holding it up and a solid, heavy mallet given to his apprentice to finish the job, Lares sat back and grinned his creature-smile.

”There we have it, yes, yes, apprentice! Now THAT is a dam worthy of the name! It is THE dam now, I should say, ct, ct. The honor is yours, for it is your dam from here on out.”

Yaroslaw could hardly believe his eyes. Had he truly built that? He lowered his mallet and tapped the final stone thoughtfully. He looked down at his master, then out towards the crowds in the river below, who all screamed their cheers and chanted the name, "BOULDERBITE! BOULDERBITE!"

Yaroslaw rubbed the shiny incisors given to him by the strange otter and was about to hop down from the dam and say, "The honour isn't mine!" But then, the other bjorks atop the dam picked him up and paraded him around the structure, naming him the Stonesmith, the Boulderbite, the Architect.

---

As the famed Yaroslaw Boulderbite was carried off to applaud and praise, Lares stood giddily behind his pirch upon the top of the dam. Everything had gone so perfectly! His apprentice would spread the ways of working homes properly and all would be well with the world, of that Lares was certain.

Summary

Flashback to the moments after the Green Murder fucked over the Voganids. Everyone's mad at Phelenia and Mish is basically a saint. After some sobbing and crying, Nolinya says she'll go chomp trees to make a new dam and says her best builder Yaroslaw can oversee the job. Luga reluctantly agrees.

Yaroslaw's now a bit scuffed, though, cuz he has no idea how to build a dam this big. Then Lares comes and says he'll teach him. To do so, he gives Yaroslaw iron teeth that can gnaw through rock and helps him build the sweetest dam ever. One that cannot be destroyed by beasts as easily because it's made of stone, wood and silt.
After it is done, Yaroslaw is celebrated as a heroboi.

Vigour Summary

Lares - 17 vigour.
-1 Make Yaroslaw Boulderbite a hero.
-1 Bless Yaroslaw with the ability to build dams super quickly.
Lares ending with 15 vigours.