[center][h1]Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma[/h1]
[color=gray]“The immature think that knowledge and action are different, but the wise see them as the same.”[/color][/center][hr]

Their birth was a matter both murky and entirely unimportant. A little lie, a secret to shod the secretive divinity. An instant ago or since the beginning of time itself; the same thing for all it was worth. No, what was of import pertained to the fact they were here, and they were here now. Grown in the skin of a man who perhaps was once not divine, or perhaps always was.

Chaos below, storm above. Water was welcome to men, though little enjoyment could be garnered from having skin flayed by hurricane. The crevices may have destroyed their world, but now the pits to hell served an entirely unintended feature. The rain sideways from true north, towards the mountain. A dozen mortal humans clung, bloodied and terrified, to the cracks and hand-ledges along the southerly edge of their doom.

He alone was not terrified; for he was resplendent, draped in his divinity. Though indistinguishable from man, what would kill man did not kill him. He rose from his place in the crevice, the rain whipping into him mercilessly. Horror gurgled in the throats of the humans as skin was stripped from his flesh. His blood poured ceaselessly down into the crevice, painting the humans red. Bare muscle came off in strips, launched headway with the rain; skidding atop the crevice and carried further beyond.

Yet, even bare of muscle and with battered organs and bone, he still walked, outwards, from the crevice and out of sight. The humans, hardly able to peek over the crevice, shouted hoarsely -- hearing each other as if only a whisper through the force of the storm. They yelled inconsequential things, all diverging to a single agreement; “Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma,” they called, to give identification to the terror presented.

They did not know whether to worship or fear the Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma, covered in his viscera as they were. The image was seared into their minds, unforgettable; they had spent their entire lives with him, by all accounts a regular man born at the end of the world and the end of gods. He had never once indicated he was anything but, and yet, wordlessly, without so much as a glance back, he walked to what should have been his painful demise.

The Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma did not consider his former compatriots more than once. He would do his work quietly, in secret; and to do so he would need to hide from them. Beyond that, he did not think them worthy to worry himself over. Once he was out of sight, nothing more than a divinely-animated skeleton, bones pockmarked with particularly forceful droplets of rain, he truly began his work.

To interact directly with the other gods would not do; he knew of their existence, their divine pollutant stinking every sense he could muster. They blundered loudly, blind to the subtleties that swam under the surface. His power was finely-tuned, clean in a manner of sense. He could create agents to utilize his abilities in the obvious forms of his brethren, and remain a silent watcher in the background.

Thus was his decision to begin work on a demigod, linked intrinsically to him and sharing in his power. His primary agent, to see to all of his work in the world and beyond. Moulded from shadow, her form began to take shape. A monster by every sense of the word; tall beyond humans, with claws that could tear god’s metal. A mouthful of razor teeth, though food was unnecessary in the face of divine ichor. Ageless and timeless, with a sharp wit.

[center][h2]An-Clastaphon[/h2]
[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/72c806ef-5f42-40bd-9a8c-a84f52389a0c.png[/img]
[color=gray]“Having hands and feet everywhere; having eyes, head, and face everywhere; having ears everywhere; the creator exists in the creation by pervading everything.”[/color][/center]

No words needed to be exchanged between the rain-struck skeleton and the demigod; her brain was built with all she needed to know. The god had no further need of the body, and so it dropped to the floor; as dead as a skeleton ought to be. The rain battered it out of sight, and she did not mourn. Her god was not truly dead, and would surely be back another time.

The An-Clastaphon leaped from the alcove, taking in the sight of the hurricane around her. She had work to do, and she intended to begin working immediately.

[hider=Summary]
- Some stuff about how the specifics of the god of secret’s birth is…. A secret. Wow!!!
- The god of secrets, in their mortal form, walks out into a hurricane of super-death, and horrified humans hiding in a nearby crevice get to watch as the god of secrets is stripped to a walking skeleton by the rain. They give the god of secrets their first name, “Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma”. This will not be the only name the god of secrets gets.
- Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma goes to a cozy, hidden place and makes the An-Clastaphon, a scary shadow creature who is super clever, and also immortal. The An-Clastaphon will probably pick up a common name later.
- The An-Clastaphon leaves to do stuff, according to what Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma wants.
[/hider]