Also known as: Faramund, The Sacrifice, The Vulture

Age: Very young for a god - about two thousand years, give or take.

God Status: God of Nomads, Protection and Sacrifice

Personality: Callous, self-absorbed, and a little cruel from time to time, Pharamond can be said to be the archetypal enfant terrible. While he might not be the brightest, or the most knowledgeable, he is a good judge of character, and it takes little time for him to classify someone. He is particularly good at thinking on his feet, but doesn't often give much thought to long-term consequences. Depending on which day of the week you catch him on, he can either be your best friend or your worst enemy. To his subjects, he’s always cordial, almost sickeningly sweet, giving them exactly what they want each and every time they come crawling back - provided they offer something in exchange, of course. Pharamond is particularly fond of blood sacrifices, be it animal or human; though who could deny the merits of the latter?

As for those he has no need of, however, they often find themselves put off by his bluntness. He doesn't abide by the rules, he doesn't play fairly, and he certainly doesn't let anyone think they can get one up on him. Naturally venomous, mephitic, and even distant, he is used to guarding himself emotionally, something he does by being lacing his words with caustic sarcasm. Pharamond doesn’t like feeling vulnerable - he hates it. If he likes something, chances are he'll let you know it, and if he doesn't, well, he's never been shy about voicing his opinion in that matter as well. Yet beneath all his flaws, Pharamond believes that his word when given is law, and never makes a promise he does not intend to keep.

Parents: None. Pharamond was created by humans, given life through ritualistic means.

Sexuality: Asexual

Form on Earth:

True Form:

Powers: Pharamond is capable of minor shape-shifting, carrion eaters being his forms of choice when he doesn’t have to appear human. He also has something of a psychic connection with the lands, a mental map in his head, if you will. He is able to sense danger in his immediate vicinity, and if he is searching for something or someone, an innate, magnetic pull will lead him to them.

Additionally, he also has the ability to bestow good fortune. Those blessed by him find themselves almost infallible, everything seeming to go their way. This effect, however, isn’t permanent, nor is it all-powerful. To sustain it, one must offer up gifts to Pharamond in the form of blood and flesh - preferably the freshly dead corpse of an animal or human.

Weapon: Pharamond wears a necklace of shattered bones around his neck, the only part of himself he has left. It is an extension of his powers - channeling them into a concentrated point for easier, more potent access. Without his direct influence, however, the necklace becomes nothing more than it seems. It’s not exactly a weapon per se, but Pharamond has never been the most martial of gods.

History (Pre-Earth bound): -

History (Post-Earth bound): Pharamond was human once. Born into a tribe of nomads, he was taken from his parents even before he let out his first squall, before he even saw his first ray of light. For years, he remained shuttered away in an isolated tent draped with animal hides, thick and heavy enough to block out the sun. He touched no one, saw no one, but the tribe fed him well, better than any of the other children.

All he knew was darkness.

And then, some sixteen, seventeen winters on, when the night was at its longest, Pharamond was dragged from his tent, into a circle of bonfires. The light was blinding, an explosion of colours - red, yellow, white - he had never seen anything so bright. Around him, the fevered chanting of the tribe grew and grew, a cacophony of human voices ringing in his ears.

But none of it compared to the blades that pierced him. Iron and bronze, the blades broke his skin, skewering anything and everything in their way before finally finding their target - his heart. Like a hot knife through butter, the organ was sliced to ribbons right in his chest, and the last thing Pharamond remembers before choking on his own blood, eyes rolling back in his head, was the pain.

It seemed like an eternity, after that, the amount of time he spent floating in absolute nothingness. He didn’t exist. Nothing did. Then, as if on a tether, Pharamond was pulled from the void, back onto this mortal coil.

At first, he couldn’t see, hear, or feel a thing. He’d never been underwater, but he imagined this was how it would be like. And then, slowly but surely, everything started to come into focus. He was in the sky, amongst the clouds, too far up for a human to venture, a formless force that was still too weak to influence the world around him. But as time went by, as the tribe began to believe, his power grew, and he was able to take a physical form. From dust in the wind, Pharamond became a beetle, then a lizard, then a sparrow, then a hawk, until finally, he looked how he did in life.

The tribe had carried his remains from encampment to encampment, though they were no longer anything more than a pile of fragile bones wrapped in furs, having long been picked clean by carrion eaters. They sacrificed animals and children to him, praying for good fortune as they travelled through the lands, and eventually, Pharamond proved to be just what they needed.

The luck of the village; they called him, and for a century or two, the proclamation rang true. Every time they moved, Pharamond would fly ahead in front of them, making sure the road ahead was safe, and ripe with opportunity. When they foraged for food, he would point out the trees bearing the most plentiful fruit. Those who fell ill recovered quickly, the tribe’s children grew up to be strong and healthy, and he learnt how to speak their language. Thanks to his newfound abilities, the nomads prospered.

But as the saying went; all good things must come to an end. Year after year, sacrifices became scarce. The tribe began to grow resistant to the idea of giving up their children, instead resorting to animal carcasses, and even that stopped after a while. Perhaps the tribe believed he would continue to aid them out of the goodness of his heart, or perhaps they simply forgot, but without them upholding their end of the bargain, Pharamond had no reason to stay, and one morning, before the sun rose, he left, taking his own remains with him.

For years, he wandered the earth, though he soon grew weak without the tributes of blood that’d breathed life into him. It was somewhere around the eighth century, when he found himself in Constantinople, that he began to take things into his own hands. Children were snatched from their beds, only to turn up days later on the outskirts of town, seemingly mauled to death by some kind of animal, chunks of flesh ripped from their bodies.

No one suspected the blonde haired, blue eyed Pharamond of being the culprit, and no one questioned him about the small, wooden chest he carried around with him.

In exchange for its children, Pharamond watched over the city. Constantinople, and by extension, the Byzantine Empire flourished, rivalling even the Romans under Trajan’s reign. Of course, he couldn’t be credited with accomplishing such a thing all by himself. It was a combination of sound judgement, formidable armies, and wise kings - the otherworldly intervention of Pharamond could only do so much, after all.

Still, it wasn’t long before Pharamond grew bored, and the salty, ocean breeze which he found refreshing on arrival was beginning to make him sick.

Once again, in the early hours of dawn, he left, taking wing in the form of a red-feathered vulture. Across the ocean, he flew and flew, until he reached the New World - the Americas.

The cycle repeats.

Motive: Pharamond doesn’t have one, apart from his survival. The ceaseless quarrelling between these so-called greater gods isn’t something he’d like to get involved in.