[hider=Narzhak]

[center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/b8fc4c38-d870-45d9-a200-42f0f204dba0.png[/img]

[h1]NARZHAK[/h1]

[h3]the Bloodied Fist, the Iron Scourge, the Fell Colossus, the Iron God[/h3][/center]

[b]The Sphere:[/b] Deep below the earth, just over the barrier that encloses Galbar’s fiery core, lies the [b]Pit of Trials[/b], abode of the Iron God. It is built into a single cavernous vault, so tall that its ceiling would be invisible from below even if it were not constantly shrouded in smoke and so vast that its edges are hidden beyond the horizon. Clouds of unnatural crimson flame, wracked by erratic currents of lightning, and great dripping orbs of magma hover across its height, casting an uneven glow that lights the subterranean darkness into a charnel penumbra.

At the bottom of the Pit is an expanse of rock, arid and warm to the touch. While traces of life upon it are scarce and wide traits of it are flat and barren, it is far from empty. Chains of hills and small mountains, lakes and rivers of molten rock spanned by narrow and treacherous bridges, gaping fissures, ruined or unfinished remains of spires and fortresses, abyssal caverns and many other terrible marvels dot its surface, and monstrous creatures of the depths roam and lurk across this hellish domain. Storms of ash and cinders haphazardly scour the wastes, and the very land seems to subtly work against any intruders - pebbles and rocks will unaccountably shift at inopportune moments to cast the unwary into pitfalls, and vents will abruptly open below one’s feet to spew out noxious fumes.

The walls of the great chamber are a world unto themselves. A myriad of lesser cave mouths, unreachable from below, open over all their extension, leading to forges, breeding pits, arsenals and repositories of instruments of destruction. The brutish denizens of the Pit, thralls of Narzhak, toil and labour therein, scurrying through connecting tunnels or clambering over the sheer ledges from one recess to another. While their artifices are never far beyond the knowledge of surface-dwellers, they are skilfully built, and often given outlandish, vicious shapes. Midway up the height of the vault, the god himself is wont to sit in an immense alcove, contemplating his realm and devising hardships to mete out upon Galbar.

Due to the Pit’s distance from the surface, its influence travels upward by dim and indirect ways. At times, there might emerge a mild tremor in the ground or a waft of malodorous smoke, but such cases are rare. Much broader and more insidious is the shadow it casts over the minds of living things, however simple. Sudden, inexplicable bouts of anger, bloodthirsty musings in moments of solitude, alluring dreams of conquest and dominance, even beasts killing more than they can eat of a whim - all those may be the mark of a fiery breath from the deep.

[b]Location of Sphere:[/b] The Chthonic depths, near the Core. While one could never pierce the Pit's ceiling, no matter how deep one digs, the deepest reaches of Galbar may hold fissures and tunnels that lead to entrances into the great vault. A number of other spheres lie in the vicinity, or are otherwise connected to it:

[i]Ehomakwoi[/i], some of whose passageways may reach the networks carved into the Pit's walls;

[i]The Abyss[/i], whence flows the molten rock that pools and hovers over its landscape; 

[i]The Palace of Dreams[/i], whose influence is subtle and unpredictable, yet undeniably close;

[i]The Hive[/i], source, through various minute cunicles, of various pests and vermin that come to dwell in the Pit, becoming one of its perils.

[i]The Grand Bazaar[/i], where Narzhak's thralls travel through subterranean passages to trade their grim wares for meats and sundry. Grunting, gesticulating processions incessantly carry their loads back and forth between the two spheres;

[i]Sheol[/i], from whose warrens savage demons crawl out to prowl across the Pit's ragged wastes in search of prey.

[b]Portfolio:[/b] Wherever there arise clashing visions and ambitions, wherever there is disaccord, wrath and hunger, the ground is ripe for [b]War[/b]. Although the word may evoke the thought of great armies marching to meet each other in the field, that is far from all there is to this ruinous domain. The spirit of strife and conflict can take root within any being, be they cognizant or bestial, mortal or divine, and many a minutious stratagem or prodigious invention can spring from the crude desire to harm and kill one’s foes. Yet, no matter what marvels of ingenuity may adorn it, nor how one may try and embellish it with high-sounding notions of honour and universal necessity, war is an ugly, destructive business from which not even the victor may come out unscathed. At its root, war is the collapse of reason and harmony before brutality and violence, the fall of civilisation and order to primal, entropic chaos.

Narzhak embodies this calamitous aspect of existence and glories in it. With but a thought, he can incite bloodlust in any creature, transforming the meekest of animals into savage monsters and the most serene of mortalkind into gnashing berserkers. In his hands, anything may be fashioned into a weapon; ploughshares become swords, sometimes literally; skin hardens into armoured carapace and nails lengthen into bladelike claws. Likewise, the Bloodied Fist is adept at other aspects of his craft - he is a formidable combatant even among divines, and always has an eye for the best ways to exploit his surroundings and an enemy's weaknesses in a struggle of any magnitude.
 
[b]Persona:[/b] Blunt, brutal and immensely arrogant as befits an incarnation of war, Narzhak revels in his gruesome role and makes no effort to conceal it. Nothing amuses him more than taking full advantage of his godly potency to wantonly ruin and destroy what others have built. At the same time, it would be wrong to think of him as merely a savage hedonist. All his slaughter and rapine has, in truth, a loftier goal than his own entertainment, and that is no less than the betterment of the universe. Coarse and sanguinary though he may be, the Iron God would never stand to be called an ingrate or an oathbreaker, and he is mindful of the fact that he owes the divinity he so relishes to the workings of  the Architect. As such, he considers himself obligated to assist in seeing through the latter’s grand creative plan to fruition, and if he so happens to enjoy it, all the better.

Unfortunately for Galbar and its inhabitants, Narzhak is a steadfast believer in the way of the lash. To get the best out of something, one must pitilessly force it out through trial and torment, without regard for collateral damage; and, being nothing but not dutiful, he will not hesitate to scourge the entire world with tireless ferocity to push it to achieving its full potential. In this unforgiving vision, there is no room for lesser beings as anything other than minuscule cogs in the cosmic machine. Narzhak will scarcely even deign to distinguish among them, exception made for those scarce few who manage to impress him enough to be exalted as harbingers of his entropic ravages. Nonetheless, not even such insignificant gnats are inherently unworthy of appreciation, and he is generous in rewarding those who honour him by their own choice.

Overall, Narzhak approaches his position in the world as a commander would a campaign. There are battles to be fought and plunder to be made, allies to be sought in like-minded deities and enemies to be found in those who would abuse their power solely for their benefit, but above all there is to be a scheme to mark the best way ahead, however vague and flexible. Exultant rage has its place in the heat of combat, but a master of warcraft must know to be cunning and patient when the situation calls for it, and who could understand this better than the god of war himself?

[b]Appearance:[/b] The Bloodied Fist takes on the shape of a titanic figure, rivalling a mountain in size. Although broadly humanoid, this body is grotesque and ogre-like, with a massive torso resting on short, stout legs and powerful arms that end in four clawed fingers. Its skin is covered by gigantic plates of iron, ill-matched and with ragged edges that grate against each other. Through the fissures they leave exposed it can be seen that the god’s flesh below is a raw, grey mass oozing a noisome ichor, in parts fused to the armour, so that it is difficult to say where the one ends and the other begins. The being’s head is little more than a colossal misshapen bulk of metal, a flat, blank visor covering all features but four fiery eyes.

[b]Musical Theme:[/b]
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TD5LDua40i8[/youtube]

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