[centre][h1][sub]Mish-Cheechel the Avenger[/sub][/h1]
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Bishadnik had been a happy manbjork. And he liked to think that he had been a good manbjork too. He had wandered the riverlands in awe and had oft glorified now the Singing Maker and now Old Bjork. His life, for all the terrible predators that stalked the air and woods and waters, was a great harmony of wonder. When he hungered, he ate. When he wished after company, his clanbjorks offered joy. When work called, he answered it with gusto - none worked like Bishadnik, none sang like him, none beat their tails, none ground their teeth against the sighing bark like Bishadnik. All who beheld him knew that he was no mere workman but an artisan, a sculptor, a worshipper. When Bishadnik stood he towered above all other bjorks, when he moved through a group they parted for him and beheld his majestic form as though he were a son of the Singing Maker. And when Bishadnik wooed a lassiebjork he bent low and brought his tail between his feet, and his smiles were such as to send even the iciest of maids into a fit of embarrassed giggles. He was a happy bjork, was Bishadnik, a bjork to halt the rivers with, a bjork to down the forests, a bjork to laugh into the eyes of death beside. He was a good bjork.

But when he stood, tall, bloodied, and alone amongst the ruins of his clan, Bishadnik was not a happy bjork or even a good bjork. No, he was not even Bishadnik. On that day he was Mish-Cheechel. And Mish-Cheechel was an angry bjork. As the remnants of his people stumbled in a daze around him, Mish-Cheechel was a weeping bjork. And when his gaze fell upon one of them, it smote like thunder and struck like lightning. And when he raised his tail, it was like the trembling of a mountain. On that day, when he gnashed his teeth it was not to the sighs and giggles of wood, but to the furies of the whistling winds; he gnashed tooth against tooth and flared his snout. They did not approach him, but went trembling around him and did not meet his gaze. They knew what he was going to do, and they wanted no part of it. They scampered away in fear when he bent and took up the remnants of a wooden spear and raised it to the heavens. 

"Hear me!" His voice lashed against the roiling skies like thunder. "Hear me: you Singing Maker, you Old Bjork, you Green Murder; hear me you thousand gods whose names are muttered only in the halls of forgetfulness: today I am Mish-Cheechel, and I shall never cease until vengeance is mine. So let it be heard, so let it be known, so let it be until water eats the world and nothingness consumes all! I will sink my teeth into you yet; Mish-Cheechel will be your great horror, Green Murder, your great regret, and the last thing you ever know!" Then Mish-Cheechel, whose shoulder was the mountain, whose tail was the river, whose tooth was the unyielding stone, whose eye was lightning and whose voice was thunder, Mish-Cheechel the Avenger, walked from the ruins of his people and ventured out to kill the eagle god.

[list][*][hider=Summary]Mish-Cheechel, a survivor of Phelenia's attack on the Rod bjorks, pledges vengeance against the goddess. He makes a pledge by all the gods (he's addressing them, so I guess they hear it) that he will not rest until Phelenia has paid for her crimes with DEATH. Fear the fury of a good bjork's anger![/hider][/list]