[hider=Lonn, God of Mortals]
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[center][color=ed1c24][b]LONN[/b][/color][/center]

[color=ed1c24][u][b]Domain:[/b][/u] [/color]
[color=ed1c24]God of Mortals[/color] - Born during the heart of the apocalypse, Lonn is the human condition made manifest. The domain of mortals focuses not in the creation of races or their works but instead every aspect of what makes a sapient, intelligent life-form truly be “alive”. Within his domain exists the components of personal growth, the range of sapient emotions, aspirations for greater things, the capacity to enact conflict, and the ultimate mortality related to such a mode of existence. Lonn revels in the love in the hearts of men in equal measure to their hate and professes adoration for their passions, big and small, no matter the target or their aims. 

The Domain of Mortals thus commands the very thing that makes people unique, empowering Lonn to encourage both the greatest and worst excesses within Mortals to complete both great and terrible things. Lonn is the fire in the hearts of men that makes them reach for better lives and the lightning in their minds that makes them dash aside the lives of others. 


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[color=ed1c24][u][b]The Red Lance of Lonn[/b][/u][/color] 

Ardal ald Ardalan sat brooding within the shadowed confines of his urdu, his court and guards having been sent away in his most recent bout of fury. Outside the burlap barrier of the war-tent a camp grew out in all directions, filled with hundreds if not thousands of warriors. It was a host the likes of which the land had not seen in the age of fire yet, despite all that Ardal had done, those blasted walls refused to even shudder.

A hundred yards from his camp stood those blasted parapets that kept secured the fortress of Wold. [i]Impenetrable[/i] Walls of Wold, they called them. 

“Blasted, bedeviled Woldians…”

Ardal had laid siege to that damned stronghold for the better part of a year now and still it held, well supplied from years of fattening themselves on the realms abroad and secure from the raids that harried most settled folk. The Age of Fire had brought low so many peoples but there, in their bunkers and hard points, the Woldians had found for themselves a keep made by the ancients. The warlord had paid every price he could to hire engineers, those who had knowledge of physic and iron, to build machines to bring them down and yet still they stood, [b]mocking[/b] him.

Ardal was pulled from his restlessness by the shining of a light, a bright red glow that slowly grew till the entirety of his urdu burned bright with that crimson incandescence. Ardal drew his saber, a fanged thing that looked vicious in his hand, and held it towards the light threateningly; Ardal had not earned his place through weakness and he had not been bowed by monsters before.

“Speak! Who dares scurry when Ardal the Unbowed stands alone!”

No figure appeared, instead the light coalescing into a single point then extending outward into a line of crackling arterial dread. There was malice within that baleful light but benevolence as well, warming the part of Ardal that had driven him so long ago to take up the sword in the first place. 

[color=ed1c24]“Ardal,”[/color] shuddered a voice, rippling out from the rod of red in a piercing static shock to the Warlod’s senses, [color=ed1c24]“Truly, you are the best of them.”[/color]

Ardal stared blank eyed for a moment, blinking as he churned through the mountain of information provided in but a single sentence. The thing knew of him, that much was certain, and its dread visage formed into that of a lance seemed to reflect that intuition with ecstatic motion. It rippled and bit at the air around it, remaining completely unmoving beyond the unnerving motion of its changing shape. What exactly this thing was, Ardal did not know, but if it knew him and spoke highly of him, who was he to speak ill of it? His weapon lowered, if only slightly, as it continued to speak.

[color=ed1c24]“You deserve this, Ardal; those preening eidolons a top their platinum towers. Did they struggle as you did in this Age of Fire? Did they earn what they have or simply sit upon the works of greater men; YOUR ancestors, at that! And now they have the gall to laugh at your efforts? Such rank unfortunates, the whole lot of them; damned Woldian wolves, I say.”[/color]

Ardal again stood unmoving, decades of struggle and effort and reward having taught him patience more than anything. He dare not speak a word as the entity whispered sweet nothings at him, doubting severely its intentions as it seemed to agree with his every thought and desire. If someone you have never met agrees with everything you say, something is amiss, after all.

[color=ed1c24]“Your worry is unnecessary, good Ardal,”[/color] echoed the voice, the cloth walls of the urdu rippling at its insistence, [color=ed1c24]“For I am a generous benefactor who offers much and asks little. Your goals are my goals, good Ardal, and my means will be your ends. Take up my lance, wise King; with it, all you rightly deserve is but a toss away.”[/color]

The red light receded inwards toward the lance, though the rod still rippled and gnashed at the air, sparking like lightning waxing crimson. Now an aura of cardinal brightness roared out about a meter in diameter around the spear, the center of the deadly spike seeming to calm as if offering itself as a grip for the warlord. With hands barely trembling as Ardal did his best to contain his emotions, the warrior-who-would-be-king slowly stepped forward as a voice in his ear began to cheer him on. Voices from his childhood, from his early days, from his rise, supporters and foes alike, all telling him this is what he deserved, what he had earned. Fingers reached forth to cautiously brushed against the spear and in an instant it was in his closed fist, as if jumping to his hand between the blink of an eye and forcing his digits closed upon it.

Power surged through Ardal’s veins, red arterial lightning flashing across every artery visible against his skin. His eyes widened, the man feeling greater than he ever had before. An energy coursed in his heart and drove him to walk from the hall, no longer feeling the anxiety of the siege nor the exhaustion of his long conflicts. Several guards locked to attention as he strode out, seemingly unaware of what had occurred within the urdu. With surprised fascination they stared at the baleful weapon held within their master’s hand and with ferocious intent, Ardal stared down the wood-packed road that led straight towards the no-man’s land between the camp and the walls.

Before Ardal stood his greatest enemy, the very walls of the Woldians that kept them safe and let them cast sneers and insults towards him. Rage rolled through his body and with it came the ecstasy of certainty, a confidence in his actions held only by a man ablaze. With all the fury and passion in his heart, Ardal stepped into a throwing stance and hurled the lance with all his strength towards Wold. 

The lightning bolt lance launched down the path, its carmine radiance lighting the path as it travelled with the pace of the Age of Fire itself. A thunder crack shattered the silence of the night as the dread weapon skipped across the landscape and reached the wall faster than eyes could keep track. As the spike struck the wall it passed through, leaving a scorch mark in its space, before slamming into the heart of the city.

A tower of light rose from the center of the city followed by scorching heat and the deafening roar of a god let free. One second passed and the city of Wold exploded, the briefest screams of terror snuffed out in the blast. The column of red flame and lightning climbed well into the heavens, pushing the clouds of the night out in all directions and making, for an instance, the moon surrender to the light of day.

All around Ardal his men lay flattened, slowly rising back to observe the destruction wrought by their lord. Ardal himself shook, eyes wide, jaw dropped low. Before him, where once the [i]Impenetrable[/i] Walls of Wold stood, now sat a crater. All he had hated, had wanted, was gone and in its place the ultimate expression of mankind’s willingness to act. As ash began to fall, Ardal’s awe struck visage drew back into the slightest smile; a generous benefactor indeed.
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[color=ed1c24][b]Base Form:[/b][/color] Lonn presents himself in a number of forms as relevant to his current scheme or project, but primarily dances between three major figures that are actively recognizable by peoples familiar with the deity. Though depictions may vary culturally, he will regularly take up these forms to interact with mortals and gods alike.

[url=https://i.imgur.com/mNFEIdl.jpg]Lonn the Fulminator[/url], a crimson bolt of light that dances light a lightning bolt through the sky. Though capable of holding a vaguely humanoid shape, this is a facsimile of such a body and nothing more. It is in this form that he interacts with mortals in the most supportive way, empowering them to action in the most literal of senses. It is from this form in particular that Lonn’s nicknames relating to lightning and the color red are derived. 

[url=https://i.imgur.com/2bO4ZCS.jpg]Lonn the Transien[/url][url=https://i.imgur.com/plhKphf.jpg]t[/url], where Lonn inhabits the form of a human man. The human facsimile of Lonn is not noticeably tall, skinny, or even attractive. A shock of red hair, well within the normal range of human hair color, is common but not always present and is often changed to blend in with peoples with less common hair colors. What is common throughout is a set of perfect teeth, pristine to the point of being noticeably uncanny.

[url=https://i.imgur.com/IWQW8ik.jpg]Lonn the Destroyer[/url], where Lonn occupies the form of a human-esque skeleton. The material of Lonn’s structure appears reminiscent of the old ruins of mankind and his internals seem lit by reddish power. He occupies this form as a beacon of violence, promoting riotous behavior, the annihilation of one’s enemies, and a perpetual willingness to do anything to complete one’s goals. It is this skeleton icon to which soldiers pray, assassins swear oaths upon, and Warlords secretly whisper their deepest desires towards in the dark of night.

[color=ed1c24][u][b]True Form:[/b][/u][/color] Though Lonn’s truest form can, in many ways, be prone to change as any person might change throughout their life, the two forms most regularly seen in such dire times are that of the Throne and the Annihilation.

[url=https://i.imgur.com/TcHIHcq.jpg]The Throne of Want[/url], Lonn’s pure representation of mortal desires, needs, and capacity for greatness, appears as a carven throne with a skeletal figure sunken within. Upon presenting such an icon of overwhelming mortal experience, the exact size and vastness of the Throne becomes unbearable. The skeletal figure sunken within represents the nature of mortals, ruling upon a throne of their own making but trapped within that greatness like a tomb. The dead-eyed stare of the Red God bares down on those who observe it, seeing their thoughts pour from the icon of mortality as sprawling streams of thoughts carven into reality. 

[url=https://i.pinimg.com/originals/7b/50/c3/7b50c39c3551508e23b934e4f83ab479.jpg]The Annihilation of Awe[/url], the rarest of such presented identities, represents the capacity for mortals to bring about their own end. A massive red explosion, filled with crimson fire and arterial lightning, thunders outward from a single point consuming everything in its path. Although brought about by a deity, the Annihilation of All harkens to the world shattering magics that sundered the world in their numerous, baleful glows during the height of the apocalypse. Within the explosive maelstrom, for those capable of peering within, the rising image of a furious skull, grinning and grimacing in equal measure.

[color=ed1c24][b]Musical Theme:[/b][/color] [url=https://youtu.be/LI421CIhmTU?list=RDMM]Lonn's Theme[/url]

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