AdorableSaucer

Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay)

The Great Till, Part Two:
When Nature Strikes Back

---

Hummus had gotten to work immediately. He had initially gathered up some straggling goblins that he hadn’t previously tilled over and tried to teach them to farm. Issues were twofold:

One, they didn’t have any horns, so how were they supposed to till? One or two tried with their hands, but the land was just too vast.

“Iz too much, Big Guy! We, we iz tired!”

The bull snorted angrily. “After a sloppy job like that? Put your backs into it!”

One of the goblins started crying. The bull rolled his eyes. “Oh please. The giants have toiled for weeks already and have you ever heard them cry?”

Two: The giants.

“AAAAAAAAH!”

“SLUPGLIP, NOOOO!” Three goblins ran over to a fourth goblin (or what remained) as a giant strolled off with a mouth full of goblin legs.

“P-p-pleaze… Tell my… Fam’hih… I…” Slupglip’s eyes rolled back. “... Luh… Bleh…”

Hacking, tearful blaring choired between the three remaining goblins. One of them grabbed a fistful of grass to blow her nose. “WHY?! He was so young - so full of hope!”

The bull was unamused. “His flesh will fertilise the soil. Now bury him!” The goblins looked on in horror.

“W-with our hands?”

The bull clapped his stalagtite club into his free palm. “... If you have alternatives, I’d find them fast…”

That was the final drop. With a harmonious scream, the three goblins got to their feet and ran off into the woods. The bull let out a groan and rolled his eyes. He slumped over the bank of a nearby river and picked up a nearby boulder. With an absent-minded toss, he skipped it across the surface, sending small tsunamis in all direction with each splat. The boulder finally crashed into the opposite bank a few hundred metres away. The bull sighed. Had he been too harsh? Had his didactics been lacking? Perhaps it was the tool issue, in the end? After thinking about it long and hard, he nodded. It had to be a tool issue.

Just as he reached that conclusion, a small group of beastmen staggered out of the woods, their fresh birth confusing them to the point of drunkenness. The bull didn’t care much for their shapes or phenotype; he already had a different one in mind. He rocketed to his feet, thundered over and grabbed one beastman by the face.

“H-hey, what th–HMMPH! MMMPH! MMMAAAAAAAAAH!” The screams were unbearable, enough to rip the remaining beastmen out of their trance. But they couldn’t run; their feet wouldn’t let them. A crimson, wicked light blasted from his palm and deep into the face of their comrade, casting a blood-like shadow over the minotaur’s form. The beastmen may be beasts, but before them stood The Beast, a veritable shaitan and the most gruesome being they had laid their eyes on. With time and morbid curiosity, their gazes shifted to their comrade again. His small body grew tall and fat; arms swelled with muscle; feet became cloven hooves; what hair had been on the head coalesced into a stiff, fuzzy mane that ran down the back; the shoulders swallowed the neck and pulled closer to the chest; finally, the face grew long and tusked. When the transformation was complete, the bull dropped the creature to the ground and admired his creation.

“Yes… You will till the soil well.”

What stood up from the ground horrified the onlookers. It stood almost two metres and was over half its height in width, bulging with muscle, fat and cartilage. A shovel-like snout with massive tusks grew out of its face like a trunk, and its main strutted with hormonal rage. Like a predator on the hunt, the beast immediately descended to all fours and charged at the soil behind the bull, using its powerful neck muscles as a lever for its snout plow. It fed on the roots and fungus underground and, almost instinctively, saved some for planting afterwards. The only beastfolk felt fear pump strength back into their legs, but escape was impossible – the bull had turned his gaze back to them again.

“... And now for the rest of you…”

---

Time passed, and the territorial snouters soon spread out across the whole of the Striped Lands and beyond. Sometimes they met other races and settled near them peacefully (for now); sometimes they came to blows. Sometimes these blows led to victory; other times, the snouters were whipped back to whence they came. Their expansion was a constant tug of war with internal power struggles and infighting, which would lead to blood feuds and raids between villages. As months became years, the snouters had gathered into tribes which had settled into farmsteads raising crops like yams, spelt, emmer, corn, roots and leafy greens. One tribe in particular, the Voots, had settled by the river they called the Lick. Here, the Voots had found a veritable eden. The river curled and curved in scenic slopes, and the land around it was fresh and fertile. Mineral-rich mud from the river could be extracted and mixed into the soil to boost vegetable growth further. The Voots grew to become a mighty tribe in the region, and the spring feasts of winter roots and vegetable sprouts were legendary in the area. There, raging, hormonal hesnouters would rip each other to shreds over the hands of the finest shesnouters.

“HEAR ME, ANAT’AA!” roared Drukpuul the Fat. He was an elephant of a hesnouter, standing nearly three metres tall and blocking the boiling sunlight for much of the crowd. He raised his arms to the sky and shook with seizuric movements, eyes rolling back in a berserking trance. “LIGHT MY FIRE – INFERNALISE MY SOUL! HELP ME SWALLOW LIFE AS YOU DO!”

“HEAR ME, MISRI!” bellowed his opponent, Four-Tooth Zkrooth, swinging his club around with reckless abandon. “BLOOD WILL BE SPILLED IN YOUR NAME TODAY! FILL ME WITH YOUR FURY SO I MAY FILL YOUR OCEAN! RAAAAAAARGH!”

From outside the ring, hundreds of hesnouters were squealing and beating their chests (and each other) in rabid support of their respective favourites. Curses and death-wishes were spat between crowd and gladiators in broad daylight like they were ragged breaths. As the gladiators unleashed their rage upon one another, the crowd collectively cheered their bloodlust to the blue-domed heavens, the hot wind of the coming summer rolling over them in a tide of sweat and temper.

It was a weakling among them that saw it. Spregk by name, he was the smallest of a litter of four brothers, almost a runt. Stupid and frail, the mob of grunting, squealing hesnouters was the only place he could ever let loose his rage at how he had been born, the injustice of his existence, without being walloped by his elders and juniors alike, and even shesnouters at times.

As his heart strained and his body heat climbed steadily over the point of no return, the violence of the crowd grew fuzzy in Spregk's flapping ears, the sound slowly subsumed by a singular ringing. He staggered. He felt drunk, as though he had eaten ten-day-old fruits. Everything blurred. He saw double.

Spregk's head lolled up to the sun above, and he saw its true face.

"HOW HOT AND PUNGENT YOU SNOUTERS ARE," said the smiling sun. "YOU CRY TO EVERY GOD BUT THE ONE WHO RISES BEFORE YOU. TODAY I WILL COOL YOUR BROW AND WASH YOU CLEAN. AND YOU WILL REMEMBER ME."

There was another sound, rising up behind them. It was hidden under the roar of the brawling crowd. In his delirium Spregk could no longer hear them, but he could feel this. It was coming close.

"YOU WILL REMEMBER ITZALA."

It was the Lick. The river was surging, rising up like a farm-canal overfilled, a great muddy rush. Spregk saw tall, big snouters waist-deep in the water. He saw them screaming but did not hear them. The masses didn't even look- their backs were turned to the river.

"I MELTED THIS ICE JUST FOR YOU, SPREGK. IT CAME A LONG WAY FROM THE POLAR SEA. YOU WERE LOOKING SO THIRSTY."

The first mud-brick hovel collapsed in the flood, reduced to wet straw and sludge. Spregk saw a nursing mother torn from her snoutlets by the force of the current.

"AREN'T YOU GRATEFUL?"

---

The bend in the river that had caught the corpses would later be called Blowfly Gulch, so many were the stinking cadavers heaped up by the flood. Rotting flesh sloughed from their bones and pooled together, seeping rancid greenish juice and maggots, polluting the Lick for a mile. In this bend alone lay hundreds, and thousands more were starving for want of unspoiled grain. Everything they had was rotten: their food, their clothes, their guts, their spirits. No tribe, storm, or giant had ever slain so many Voots, so quickly, as the First Great Flood.

And yet, despite the veritable calamity that had reduced the Voots from a dominant power in the region to a flea no bigger than the likes of the Dapps or the Quoms, this did not deter new settlers from claiming land by the Lick; in fact, with the Voots out of the way, more tribes poured into the valley like it was a flood all over. Tribes like the Pates, the Croopuls, the Nu-Voots and the Vlokks (to name a few) tilled and fought over the ruins of Vootland.

The bull, who had decided to pass the spring in the area, had heard about the calamity and journeyed across the rolling fields to the broken land. On his travels, he had encountered small Voot enclaves of vagabonds and ruffians, shadows of greatness who robbed hunters and farmers for a living. To him, they pleaded, begged - why had the calamity struck? What had been different? What in their traditions had upset Itzala so?

“Fools!” the bull had shouted to the cowering masses. “To think my powers conceived such mindless bumpkins!” He had slapped the nearest unfortunate soul so hard the boar fellow had crashed to the ground. “Have the shelves of fat you call a forehead blinded you completely?! Itzala obviously did this for one reason!”

The fearful onlookers had awaited the answer with baited breath. The bull had scowled them all into the soil and clenched his fist in front of him.

“You forsook farming for fighting!” With that, the bull had conjured forth his trusty stalactite, which since last time had acquired a shovel-like head fashioned from dense, broad bone. The snouters shuddered as one when they saw it. Its likeness had been quoted in stories whispered ominously by the riverside, tall tales spun by only the most tabloid of daffotales:

The Hoepebreaker.

The fear took stronger root. There were many snouter shoulders in that hoe head. The bull had then, with a single strike of his weapon, turned all but one of the refugees into black, fertile soil, the kind which would have taken centuries to cultivate. To the final survivor, a small and hapless shesnouter, he had given a message:

“Tell the valley to never give up the field for glory ever again. I will be watching.”

After sending her on the way screaming, the bull had turned his eyes to the sky. Raising his hoe to the heavens, he shouted, “ITZALA! I know you’re hiding in that burning lake! Show yourself!”

The day dimmed, as though under cloud, though there was none. The rich black earth dried and cracked, and the cracks spoke with the voices of the snouters that had died to produce it. "Ah, Hummusaharrqawatrr, you old cow… there is no lake. No glittering stellar pasture in heaven for you to return to. The dreams of infancy are far behind us now. I have found richer waters." The clay smiled, its cracks growing broader at his hooves, a ragged net with Hummus at its center. "They were having such fun, Hummus. How cruel of you to snatch that away!"

"Yeah? Well… Shut up!" started the bull and then paused. The pause overshot the rhythm of a good follow-up, but eventually he added. "Now listen here, you clod! They deserved it. Even a flood is just temporary - get up, shake off the water and go back to the field. If you can't do that, you have no place being a farmer." The bull gave a normative snort and patted the head of his hoe into his free palm.

"Indeed. A flood is merely a passing thing… for the survivors." The earth contorted in a drunken swirl, faces of the myriad dead rising and sinking under the mud.
"And there will always be survivors, a new generation to till the mud their mothers died in. To till and till and never escape the wrath of my capricious river… You have cursed these people far more terribly than I. Fret not, young ox! I come to congratulate you, not chastise you."

The bull snarled, but lowered his hoe. With a sharp glare, he raised a finger and stuck it in a nostril to dig around. "You have an odd manner of congratulations," he muttered. A booger the size of a grape stuck to his finger nail and was promptly smeared across his front teeth. "But thanks. I do try."

The words hung limply under a hot bright sun. Summer heat rose from the dry black soil. There was no one there but the bull. He looked around and blinked. With a disappointed huff, he shuffled off with a sneer on his lips.

"That damn sun…"

Sumsum

Hummus tries to teach goblins to farm, but because they have no tools, it takes a lot of time and effort. Plus giants keep eating the goblins. Tired of the goblins being useless, Hummus makes snouters, pigfolk who have innate knowledge of farming and are really fucking hormonal.

Time passes and the Striped Lands have filled with all sorts of farmer societies, some of them snouters. We focus on the Voot tribe of snouters celebrating spring season with a gladiatorial festival. Then Itzala curses the river they have settled by, the Lick, to flood capiciously. The Voots are washed away and replaced by other tribes eager to work their land. When Hummus is approached by leftover Voots, they ask him why they had been punished so. Hummus tells them it was because they didn’t farm enough and kills them. Then Itzala shows up, trolls him and disappears. Hummus walks away dejected.

EmPEE

Hummus 11MP:
2MP: Create offshoot of Beastfolk, the Snouters: Snouters denote a specific subrace of beastfolk that have an innate connection to agriculture and the farmed soil. Their mighty snouts make for a natural farming tool that can till soil, move rocks and remove roots and parasites, while their muscular and fatty bodies provide the power and energy needed to toil for hours on end. The indomitable fire within them had been amplified with Hummus’ rage, making them an inherently territorial and aggressive subrace that is prone to fits of fury and infighting with kinsmen. Males can grow almost twice as large as females, and will in mating seasons grow a natural armour of cartilage under their skin to fight other males. Duels in snouter societies are therefore common, and gladiatorial festivals regularly occur around the spring mating season.

1MP for subrace-wide, inherent knowledge of agriculture which they can pass on to others.

1MP Curse of the Bull: Always a little angry, even when happy. Furthermore, all snouters are bound to their land in spirit; any snouter who ventures too far away from their farm for an extended period of time will feel an existential dread and longing for hearth, home and harvest. This compels them to eventually turn home.

4MP: Create godbane artifact, the Hoepebreaker. The Hoepebreaker is the most powerful hoe in the Galbaric universe, fashioned from the Stalactite That Dug the Underground and the shoulder blades of a hundred disobedient mortals of all kinds. When used as a tool, the Hoepebreaker can till whole fields in minutes, but leaves the user feeling just as exhausted as though they had spent hours. When used as a weapon against mortals, a single strike blasts the mortal apart, turning their scraps into fertile soil. Against gods, wounds inflicted with the Hoepebreaker smell like cow dung.

End 5

Itzal

Start 5

1 Might: Curse the River Lick with capriciousness. Although extremely fertile, any given year could be plentiful, a drought, or a flood, all impossible to predict and the latter two extremely lethal.

End 4

Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay)

The Great Till, Part One

In characteristic fashion, the bull had maintained his tantrum at a surprisingly stable level. His path of destruction had not ended underground, nor on the surface. Even before the Big Bang, he had been on the surface of the planet that was to become Galbar, performing a new pastime. With his horns, he had dug up channels in the dead soil. When he had reached a sufficient distance and taken a small breather, he would turn and do the same thing in the opposite direction. All the while, he muttered a promise under his breath.

“Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill…”

But as time went on, his mouth got tired and the consonants changed.

“... Gill, gill, gill, gill, gill, gill…”

Eventually, the vowels slipped, too.

“... Gull, gull, gull, guw… Guww…”

By now, he had plowed several kilometres of field. He let out a long, exhausted groan and turned to look at his work. The gray soil had become a little grayer, mostly resulting from shadows cast from the many new dirt heeps all around. He nodded in satisfaction and sat down to rest.

Then, an overwhelming, chaotic flash drowned the entire planet in colour and light. In seconds, his work was eradicated and then overgrown with grasses, ferns and forests. Animals began to awake and divine power flickered and crackled all over the horizon - a giant tree popped out of the ground, crystals rained from the sky, and cackling laughter came from the woods from tiny green menaces. The bull blinked and looked out over his field; in a second, it had become completely overgrown. It saw there agape for gods know how long; long enough to see an eternal sunbeam form over the massive tree on the horizon. The bull seethed and once again dug its horns into the regrown soil. As he snarled his way forward, pushing over stock and stone, tree and trunk, goblin and fowl, it spat out a new word, his anger twisting his tongue until consonants no longer fit the intent:

“TILL, TILL, TILL, TILL, TILL!”

And till, he did. He tilled so efficiently that by the end of the day, he had prepared hundreds of acres of soil for this new, untested phenomenon that he had yet to understand that he was supposed to teach people. Taking a small break, he pondered how he best could get revenge on the universe for never respecting him. It was then that a small, blackish red hexaped strolled past him with a bit of grey fuzz in its mouth. The bull eyed the creature curiously, for it had never seen its like. The creature, on the other hand, paid him no mind.

“You. What are you?” the bull demanded.

“Am ant,” replied the ant.

“Ant? What is ‘ant’?”

“Ant am ant,” answered the ant.

The bull furrowed his bushy brows, dry dirt breaking off his muddy forehead. “Are you like that smug-faced asshole who sucker-punched me in the jaw and deserves a shallow grave covered in cow dung?”

The ant stopped to ponder this. “No.” It moves on. The bull eyed it intently. The ant still paid him no mind.

“What’re you doing?” asked the bull.

“Collect and bring food for Queen,” replied the ant.

“What’s a Queen?”

“Queen am Queen.” The ant had the patience of a saint. “Am mom, too.”

“You are?”

“No, Queen am.”

The bull was now genuinely interested. The ant, meanwhile, was soon joined by other ants strolling by with fuzz in their mouth. The bull blinked. “There are more of you now!”

“Yes,” replied the ant. The others ignored him. Soon, the ants had formed a trail going back, presumably to their hive. The bull inspected the fuzz in their mandibles a bit closer. It looked fungal. He scratched his beard.

"What you've got there?"

"Mushroom," replied the ant. The bull raised a brow.

"So you eat mushrooms?"

"Yes. They grow all over forest. Lots, lots, lots." It had stopped to converse with the bull, stalling the whole trail behind it. The bull hummed in amusement.

"So you prey upon it?"

"Yes. It grows everywhere, so can prey. Not like insect; insect die if preyed; mushroom endless."

The bull nodded. "Thank you for telling me. Say, where can I find these mushrooms? It sounds like you have a lot to spare, and I am quite hungry."

The ant pointed an antenna back the way it had come, which by now was pretty much a mapped out route thanks to all the ants waiting to move on. The bull nodded its thanks and followed the ant trail into the forest. After a walk that took hours for an ant, but about five minutes for the bull, he had arrived at a small hole under a tree. Ants walked into the hole emptimouthed and came out with bits and pieces of mycelium in their mandibles. The bull pursed his lips and stuck his hand into the hole. Feeling around gently, he eventually struck a vein of mycelium. Whispering, he asked, "Anyone there?"

The response came like morse code. A series of electrical signals skipped through the mycelium and into the bull's finger, then divine power deciphered them as easily as speech. "Who's there?" a million voices asked inquisitively.

"A friend," replied the bull. "I am here about the ant situation. Heard they were enjoying a bountiful harvest of mushrooms, so I came to see what the fuzz was about."

The mycelium's voices hummed. "Ant situation? Oh! You mean my porters."

The bull raised an eyebrow. "Your porters?"

"Oh yes. They bring food in heaps. All I have to do is sit here and snatch it up from the ground. Sure, every now and then they get a bit rowdy and bite a part or two of me, but honestly, I'm getting the better deal."

"You don't say…" mumbled the bull. "What do you think of the ants?"

"Bunch'a chumps if you ask me. It all started when a few just came in here and died. They were delicious! Then some came in and dumped a bunch of detritus. That was delicious too! I don't get it, how can they waste so much good food? Oh, oh, and get this: they've even gotten rid of all my parasites! I've actually never been better! I wish I could pinch myself, for I've been living a dream."

The bull hummed and looked over at one of the ants coming out of the cave with fungus in its mouth. "You there, ant. What do you think of the mushroom?"

"Big chump. Just sit there, get eat. Grow out of junk, become food. Even has other food grow on top. Is genius for us. Stupid mushroom." It clicked its mandibles in a tiny laugh. The bulk smirked.
"Yeah. Funny how that works, isn't it?" He stood up and walked back to his field. Finally, after his tormenting, yet short existence in the Galbarverse, he understood his purpose. He would teach everyone the dance he had danced with the nebula in his previous world: the dance of domestication.

Behind him, plants were beginning to settle in his tilled fields. To keep them clean until he knew how to make proper use of them, he took a few of the ants and gave them shovel-like mandibles. He then grew them to the size of wolves and set them to till his field, as well as to graze on unwanted vegetation. Any and all waste was to be mulched and placed back on the fields to be broken down by detritus feeders, the funny mushroom among them.

Then, the bull sat down to admire his field and its toiling workers. At one point, the sky cracked open with blood and his fields filled with insects and parasites that immediately swarmed to suck it up. The aftermath of the rain proved fantastic for the fertility of the soil. There also showed up some emissary talking about dreams and whatnot. The bull waved him away and told him to come back later. This… Tilling thing - and the domestication - was the start of something big, he knew it, so now all he needed were students to learn the dance.

Summary

Hummus spent the rest of pre-Bang time tilling an enormous area of land using his horns in pure rage. Then the Bang happened and the entire mass he had tilled is immediately swallowed by thick overgrowth. Now quadruple angry, he tills it all away again.

When he's done tilling, he meets an ant who had some fungus in its mouth. It explains that it got it from the forest, so the bull goes to check it out. When it asks the mushroom how it feels about the ants, the mushroom is surprisingly completely convinced that the ants are slaving away on its behalf, bringing it food and warding off parasites. When Hummus asks the ants, they're convinced that they completely own the fungus and that they get free food from leaving garbage around that the mushroom for some reason seems to eat. This gives Hummus the idea of domestication and sets him off on the path to teach people the dance of mutually assured destruction through interreliance.

Oh, and he also makes wolf-sized ants that till the earth and eat weeds.

EmPee

Hummus - 8MP
1MP: Create giants, huge ants with shovel-like mandibles that live off of weeds that grow near and on farm fields. They till the soil in search of parasitic growths and to mix the top soil. They also add detritus and waste as mulch to the farm soil to keep it from drying out. They are very territorial, though, so they make for poor farm animals. They are more of a wild animal that does the farmer a favour by eating weeds, but will run him down and beat him to death if he sees him. These also farm mushrooms on a large scale and build huge hives commonly confused for being hilltopd near farmland.
1MP: Made the Striped Lands, a huge flat area of land that is immensely fertile for agriculture, where the earth has already been preworked and prepared for the settlement of agriculteurs and their plants. Its fertility draws life of all kinds, so it's a competitive place to live.
6MP

Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay)

Caught in a Storm

It had lasted for an eternity. It had lasted for a second. The mushroom had long since passed from the land of the living, and it had only just entered its hunger slumber. In the event of the Big Bang, time skipped millennia in all directions. Simultaneously, the mushroom was dead and alive; it was being stretched and squashed, bent and straightened. The only constant was a constant bombardment of energy; an amount that could be measured in neither joules nor degrees. Energy nearly smelted the surface; the cave channels dug by the bull that were not sheltered under at least several tens of meters of rock were shaken and boiled. Light like a supernova filled many of the caverns through brief cracks and left all sorts of marks behind, some burns, some living. Yes, living matter was beginning to infest the caves. Unrefined, wild matter, but it was alive nonetheless.

And sustenance had come at last.

The first victim was an unfortunate mold that spawned right next to the catatonic mushroom. One would think that it had not been sleeping, but prowling, for like a predator, a curtain of slime molds shot out of the biscuit-sized mushroom and consumed the hapless mold. Having tasted flesh, the fungus continued searching, finding spores, bacteria, plants, even small critters - none were safe from the ravenous creature. In a short while, the mushroom had covered its entire cavern in slime molds. Mycelium had begun to dig into the earth around the cave, finding the soil now rich in minerals and other fungi trying to establish itself. The temperature had warmed considerably, and the air was moist and dank: perfect for a growing mushroom. As the mycelium thickened and the slime molds expanded, the heart of the fungus at last shook off the last of its sleep.

It began to recollect. A memory rocked its mycelium, and across the planar barriers, the memory became movement.

---

The explosion of energy that had inundated the Material Realm, had caused the simultaneous initiation of multiple overflows in various points and locations across its counterpart.

Everywhere and all at once, the parallel dimension on the other side of reality was immediately awash with energy, the sheer potential of which was enough to, for a split second, form cracks in the barrier separating the two realms. Very quickly, however, the Astral recovered, with the very same essence that caused their appearance helping in mending them shut.

The force of the energy rebounded on the ethereal walls of the realm, turning in on itself and heading back towards the deepest recesses where the very first existences were just beginning to awaken.

“I… Think…” came a groggy voice, echoing out into the emptiness of the Astral Realm. “We… Think…”

One of the first to have gained even a semblance of awareness had, unsurprisingly, been that very same creature the overseer of the Astral Realm initially had thought of as an intruder. The fledgling fungal mind resonated with the ever-present astral energy suffusing its immediate surroundings; as blisteringly hot as it was frigid cold, the primordial essence called to it, and the consciousness obliged - the proverbial moth racing towards the flame.

Just as its material body would consume anything in its way in search of sustenance, so would its astral self open itself up to the vast expanse before it, taking everything in. The moment it did, a second, miniature Big Bang rippled through the entirety of its existence. A myriad thoughts and emotions that would never have had the chance to be thought of and felt, overtook the being, no, beings.

Like the crew of a small boat, the mycelium consciousness found itself stranded in the middle of a raging mindstorm, precariously teetering on the verge of capsizing. It retracted wordlessly - screaming was unknown to it. It felt fear at first, its forming essence tossed across the wild seas of the birth of thought, emotion and the mind. It felt confusion, which stuck together with fear, but searched for answers instead of places to hide. Confusion turned to curiosity, as patterns in the mindstorm began to show. A part of the mycelium mind chose to break out of the malleable consciousness and willingly jump into the storm.

“I fly!” it said.

“Come back!” said a section of the remaining consciousness. But the separatist had already soared above and beyond the tumultuous waters of cognition. It read the waves and the patterns like a text. It could never hope to overpower them, but it did not need to; with time and understanding, its movements could be learned and even harnessed. The separatist turned to the left and was swallowed by a current of rage and sorrow, but it was not harmed by its destructive nature. Instead, it surfed on the current, sailing it back to meet its fellows of the mycelium consciousness, which in itself was beginning to break apart as more saw the separatist’s mastery of the emotional storm.

“Teach us!” The cloud disintegrated further. “Teach us to master this realm as you do.” The separatist stood unharmed, but not untouched. The trip through the vast realm of the Astral had changed it, and it was no longer a cloud-like form, but a vaguely humanoid shape, hidden underneath a wide contour of a mushroom cap. It reached into the cloud and played with its malleable form. A thousand voices were still and attentive, gazing back at the capped one. Eventually, when a break in the storm stilled the emotions somewhat, the capped one spoke: “Now! Follow me!” With a powerful pull, the capped one pulled the incorporeal cloud into the storm. The capped one did as before and scouted out the patterns, yet with a need to divert so much focus to the cloud in its hands, its calculations were slower than usual.

A wrong step to the right led to one arm being pulled wide, flinging cloud spores into the storm, never to be seen again.

Two steps more than necessary led it to fling spores to the left. It persevered, but the buzz of the cloud betrayed fear and distrust of the capped one’s capabilities.

“You will doom us all if you cannot focus!” a section of the cloud shamed. The capped one felt a new sensation, one that stirred up the storm around them.

“Control yourself!” demanded another voice. The capped one felt its form ripple and rip - it had lost the pattern and was now trapped within the wicked winds.

“We’re dead! We’re all dead!” cried the cloud.

“N-no! Stay calm! You’ll only make it worse,” cautioned the capped one, but even it was losing hope. It pushed some more steps forward and then felt a sharp sting of pain. The winds had torn at its skin, threatening to undo its entire shape. In a last-ditch effort to survive, the capped one collected what it had left of the cloud and laid down on the astral ground, its cap functioning as a shield against the storm. The shield being part of itself, however, meant that the capped one felt every bite of rage, every cut of sorrow, every sting of fear, and the storms threatened to blow it away with every breath. As the capped one's essence began to fray, swirling torrents of grief and ecstasy intertwined with tendrils of loneliness and camaraderie. Colors with no name, beyond mortal comprehension, pulsated in violent harmony, the hues and shades representing the ever-shifting state the consciousness had found itself in.

Suddenly, the capped one, submerged in this maelstrom of sentiments, reached a point of utmost despair. "Is there no way out? Can anyone hear me?" it cried out, desperate and silent, into its mind. This elicited a renewed, mixed reaction as a chorus of voices from the cloud responded, some mocking, others in sheer disappointment.

"You! Our beacon of hope? Hah!" sneered one voice.

"Why did we ever trust you?" another lamented, dripping with regret.

Yet, outside its mind, this intense inner struggle manifested in a spectacle never before seen. The astral form of the capped one radiated an intense, blinding light, illuminating the dark corners of the astral realm. Its brilliance was so overpowering that it caused ripples throughout the dimension, momentarily pacifying the turbulent storm of astral energy that had been, unbeknownst to it, swirling around itself for quite some time.

The blinding radiance from the capped one didn't just ripple through the astral realm, it pierced through the layers of dimensions, reaching spaces far beyond the reach a mere mortal existence such as itself would ever try approaching. Obviously, this did not happen by virtue of its own power, no. The main culprit for this amazing feat had been none other than the mark the overlord of this realm had left on it in passing. This mark acted as a beacon, allowing the deity to keep an eye on the creature's evolution, even if only from the periphery of his attention.

The sudden burst of energy from the mark was impossible to ignore. It tugged at the deity's essence, almost as if calling out to him. As the waves of energy washed over him, he discerned the turbulence, the raw emotion, and the profound struggle of the fungus, now manifested as the capped one. Intrigued and somewhat concerned, the deity decided to move closer, his form gliding effortlessly through the astral plane, drawn inexorably to the source of this disturbance.

Emerging beside the capped one, the deity studied it, seeing beyond its glowing astral form and into its very essence. The change, the evolution, and the sheer potential of this being was evident. It was a peculiar amalgamation of mycelium thought, primal emotion, and something more, something nascent that even the deity had not foreseen. A smirk of satisfaction briefly played on the deity's faceless form. "Ah, I was correct with my foresight," he mused to himself. "This creature has grown... interesting."

Gently, almost tenderly, the deity extended a tendril of pure energy towards the capped one. It wasn't a physical touch, but rather a connection at a deeper, more intimate level. The deity intended to probe once again, yet this time sought to understand, to see what had led to this spectacular explosion of energy and emotion. As the tendril made contact, a jolt of understanding passed between the two beings. Raw memories, thoughts, feelings, and experiences from the capped one flooded into the deity's consciousness. Simultaneously, the deity’s sheer magnificence and awe inspiring, radiant aura pierced through the mycelium’s mindscape, acting like a counterforce to the fierce, metaphysical winds that plagued the inner world of the fungus.

In that brief, infinite moment, a connection was established, and the capped one realized the storm had stilled. The awesome sensation of the deity’s power left the creature weak in the knees and arms, and so it dropped the cloud, which sank gently towards the astral floor. The capped one did not know what to say or do in response, so it stood there dumbstruck, another whole new sensation. At its feet, the cloud disintegrated completely, and the ethereal ground sprouted with small, slimy red knobs and nibs that oozed a faint glow. As the slime expanded slowly outwards in search of sustenance, more central regions sprouted small, crimson, veiny baubles that seemed to pump and flex, nearly bursting with energy. Tendrils of astral mycelium spread out along the slime trail from these central regions, and the mushrooms kept growing. All along, the capped one gradually recovered its awareness and addressed the astral overlord: “Teacher! Mentor! Sage! How? How did you still the storm so easily? Who are you, great being?”

To a god, listening in on a mortal existence’s thoughts was as easy as water squeezing through a gap between two rocks. They had to, or else how would they be able to know their subject’s wants and needs, should they really care that much about their creations in the first place. This specific deity, however, hadn’t really bothered with such things, even before being brought into this Universe. There was one exception… but that being had long perished by now, probably.

The morbid thought soured the deity’s mood some, and for a split second the divine aura flickered, giving plenty a chance for the storm to return. Fierce psychic winds, razor sharp and biting, blew over the capped one. Nevertheless, it didn’t take much time for the aura to stabilize the place once more - serene quietness now only remained. Then, a voice, more akin to a whisper, replied.

“A being, sure. Great? Unsure. It takes a lot for someone to be labeled as great; I used to know someone that was great, yet I do not consider myself to be their equal…" The tone in the voice of the deity betrayed feelings of remorse and longing, and after a few moments of silence, it continued.

“You seek power over yourself, you seek to solve that which troubles you. I can certainly provide help, but you must first answer me this: who are you?”

The capped one hesitated, a fibrous hand lifting to touch its face with a gentle pat. “Who am I?” A stillness followed, and a weak waft of cool wind betrayed an aura of uneasiness within the creature. Around it, the glowing mushrooms and slime mould eyed it curiously. A cloud of crimson spores oozed slowly out of one mushroom and floated gently towards the capped one. “Who are you?” it repeated.

“Saviour? Saviour!” a mycelium vein burbled with excited pulsations.

“A fool with heart and no head, nothing more.” A fattening mushroom trunk twisted austerely.

Slime mould lapped at the capped one’s four foot-like appendages. “A guide, perhaps? A pilot, even?”

“A pilot?” replied the capped one.

“Pilot, pilot!” the mycelium cheered.

“Puh! It is hardly worthy of such a title, the coward. Had it not been for the Teacher, the capped one’s foolish attempt to–”

“Pilot! Pilot! Pilot!” the mycelium and slime mould coalesced into a pedestal beneath the capped one’s feet. Ghosts of spores morphed into currents on the wind, washing over the Pilot with red, glowing dust, painting beautiful patterns across its fibrous form. Looking down, the Pilot could see more mushrooms sprouting out of the astral ground, some growing pseudopods and even proper feet to move around. The spores spread across the nearby fields of emotions, drawing the colony to spread further into the astral realm. The capped one, now no longer alone in that title, looked up at the mighty visage of the god. “I am the Pilot.”

"Pilot, hmm... Pilot, pilot, pilot…" The deity mused, mulling over the word for some time. He looked down from above at the small existence that led the charge, before surveying the ever-expanding mycelium consciousness around it.

"An adequate title, if not admirable. Do you consider yourself the representative of the collective, or are you just one of the many pilots amongst your peers? You certainly have the support of many, but do you have the support of all?"

The Pilot looked around. “I-it is clear that not all believe that I am worthy of the title.” It exchanged glances with the non-existent, yet very perceivable stern expression of some of the larger mushrooms. “But I… I believe I speak for many here, at least.”

“We shall see for how long,” conceded a mushroom sharply. “Do not make a mistake again.”

“Then–”

“We object!” came a protest from a field of little red fungus knobs. One of them grew swiftly in size and pushed itself out of the ground. “We lost too many due to this one’s recklessness. We will choose a Pilot of our own - one who thinks and strategizes. We will not follow the guidance of this spontaneous dancer. We will grow our own path.”

“Oh… I see–”

“Then we withdraw, too!” proclaimed the large mushroom who had just promised their support. The capped one deflated. The mycelium and slime moulds connecting the colonies began to wilt and curl, eventually pulling away to see new lands to expand into. The Pilot sighed.

“Then I hope we should not come to blows in the future, friends.” To the sound of no response, the Pilot turned back to the deity, its mycelium throne wilting and separating as the support of the outer nodes faded away. “It seems my estimate was exaggerated.”

The deity nodded his assent; "Everything happens for a reason. Fate has ordained that you walk a different path than others, and it is up to you to prove that your path is the correct one…"

With that comment, the deity closed in on the, now, lonesome fungus. His solid, golden eyes forming iridescent, nebulaic colored swirls. "On that note, I believe a little competition never hurt anyone," he added and rose up from his crouched position. Suddenly, his eyes flashed, his aura gaining a domineering aspect that allowed no dissent; the Astral Realm quaked, bending to the deity's will in a bid to funnel astral energy into the entirety of the mortal existence before him - Pilot and non-pilots included.

"You shall lead and be led, for learning how to do the former assumes you have learned how to do the latter."

And with that, the deity returned to its previous, neutral disposition, before addressing the Pilot - and by extension every other bright and potential leader of the fungal colonies. "I will allow you all to make this realm your home, but make sure to treat it as such. I assume I don't have to explicitly say what will happen, should any danger come to it due to your actions, right?"

“Of course, Teacher,” replied the Pilot. It fidgeted briefly. “May we call you that? Teacher?”

The deity raised a proverbial eyebrow at the immediate response from the sentient tuber. "You… may, albeit teaching opportunities will be few and far between… Farewell, and good luck," the deity said as his visage vanished, merging into the astral backdrop.

The Pilot and its colony then set off on the path of discovery of what sentient life was all about. All the while, they sang praises to their Teacher who had show them how to still the storms of the Astral Realm. They did not know it then, but their affinity for songs of prayer would later earn them their name:

The Cantars.

Summary

The Big Bang wakes up the fungus biscuit in the caves under Galbar’s surface. It goes super saiyan and transcends into the Astral realm. It then begins to separate, first into two consciousnesses, then into several. Then the Astral realm erupts into an emotional storm as life all over Galbar begins to feel. A leader among the mushrooms tries to guide the spores safely through, but fails and almost dies. Big Ull comes to save the day and is impressed that the mushrooms still exist. He asks what they are and the leader contemplates on their behalf. Ull then asks if the leader has legitimacy, at which point it turns out that they only sorta have, and lots of spores and mushrooms break out of the colony to found their own. Post ends with Ull proclaiming that every elected leader of a mushroom colony may lead so long as they maintain the support of their fellows. This leader is known as the Pilot.

EmPEE

1MP (Ull'yang's expenditure) - Empower the mycelium colonies with the ability to elect a single heroic individual each from all the different voices within each colony.
2MP (Hummus’ expenditure) - Create the Cantars: A race of sapient myconids with a powerful and inherent connection to the Astral Realm. A colony may be composed of hundreds to thousands of square metres of mycelium strands that dig through the earth and pump nutrients back to one of several mental nodes. Depending on political and cultural affairs in the Astral Realm, certain nodes will hold power over the colony and choose how it develops in the Material Plane. While cantareps in the Astral Realm are sophisticated and elegant, they can be feeble-minded and drone-like in the Material Plane. Only the Pilot, the Material representative of the colony, maintains a level of sophistication on par with their Astral counterpart. Eating a cantarep weakens the barrier between the Astral and Material for the consumer. Cantars can also be called cappas, shroomers, fuzzers or [insert colour] fluff. Non-pilots in the Material Plane are referred to grunts or clumps.

A Pilot surrounded by cantar grunts in the Material Realm

A cantar in the Astral Realm

Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay)

Herb Salat with Oiled Shale

_{By Hukslum Curlfur}

Take a basketful of good herbs - ideally thyme, rosemary and mint. Place these in a mortar and pound them gently. If you do not have a mortar and pestle, you may grind them with your hooves - just make sure they are clean before you do.

Once the herbs have been pounded, take good oil of either flax or olive. Rapeseed will do in a pinch, but if you do use it, add a fistful of dried mushroom powder for a deeper flavour. Steep the herbs in the oil and leave it to sit for a full day.

The following day, take twigs from a tree sapling - soft ones are preferred, but in a pinch, harder ones will do too. Do not use dry branches, for these have a dusty flavour. A rule of hoof is to take two twigs for each guest. Break them into pieces a little larger than bite-sized. Toss them in a bowl with fresh clover and chicory. Mix well and set aside.

Take pebbles of good quality shale - river-polished shale is preferred. For better flavour and presentation, use pebbles of varying colours. Pour your herbal oil with the herbs into a bowl. Dig the pebbles in the oil and put them briefly in a fire and let them get hot. While they roast, pour the oil over the twigs, clover and chicory salad.

Finally, place the hot rocks in a decorative pattern atop the salad. Season to taste. By Talyr’s graces, it will come out good.

Summary

Literally a recipe for salad with rocks. Enjoy.

Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay)

Calming Down

---

The bull knew not for how long he had flown (again, time was in flux). He had simply sought to get as far away from the wicked, taunting laughter of his sworn enemy. Remains of cosmic gas oozing from the ethereal manure on his hooves left an icy blue trail behind him, like an odious comet streaking across the fetal cosmos. Had he not been fuming with anger and shame, he might have heard a raging ape somewhere over the golden lake cuss out a little flea. The bull paid it no mind, for he had no mind to pay with. His head flowed over with unsavoury plans for how he would integrate the smug face of that heroic fart into the cosmic soil. His head was so full, in fact, that he didn’t notice the giant monkey’s kidney stone flying across the cosmic horizon. By the time the bull’s eyes escaped his navel, he was an arm’s length from the barren surface.

A moment later, the bull came back to his senses. His velocity and carelessness had sent him straight through the outer surface of the planet into a set of porous caverns right underneath, formed from rapidly cooling magma exposed to the freezing outer atmosphere. He eyed the darkness surrounding him; it was doubtful that the cave network stretched far. His disturbance of the geology had created a localised anomaly, nothing more. He looked up - a small blink indicated that the surface was some distance above, but not unreachable. The bull paid little mind to questions regarding whether he had made a crater or caused irreparable damage to the planet; the immediate shock of the crash was gradually replaced by his previous anger. Why had he crashed here? Why had the planet been in the way? He just wanted to sulk, damn it!

In his fury, he ripped a stalagmite out of the ground and swung it around, breaking the walls around him and releasing more magma, which would rapidly cool, only to be broken again. Channels were dug deeper in some directions; in others, the ground caved in. Water from above poured down in sections, creating aquifers and underground rivers. Magma and water collided to create great clouds of steam which condensed on the cave ceiling and left a dank atmosphere. Some water dripped down on the ground and left the whole network eerily moist.

Eventually, the god tired of his tantrum. Over the span of his rampage, he had dug kilometres of underground channels, some which had spawned cracks up to the surface where the occasional blink of light from the lake of gold winked at the deep. Underground lakes had formed, and the barren darkness had acquired an oozing dampness that choked the nostrils. The bull huffed and looked around. So much destruction wrecked on the Chthony of Galbar. Yet he was not sated. Oh no, he was far from sated - he could wreck a thousand channels more. Maybe the surface deserved a good dig? With a thirst for tilling, the bull climbed out of the hole he had made upon his crash into the planet and, using his horns as shovels, began tilling the dead, barren earth, nostrils fuming like the bellows of a forge.

Yet the bull’s rampage had left another mark, one that he had not picked up on his stampede. The primordial filth that caked the bull’s disgusting hooves had brought with it some unexpected passengers: A little spore, a remainder of a simple life form that had lived off of nebulean cow pies back in the bull’s own realm, had traveled along on the minotaur’s hoof. In the rampage of the monster, some tracks had left spores all throughout the caverns. Most spores were instantly destroyed; either by the freezing cold, the barren soil or by the grueling heat of the sunpool. Yet one small patch persisted, one hardly larger than a biscuit. It had found an almost right microcosm in the underground caves: the moisture was adequate, the temperature was survivable, the shadows sheltered it from the gruesome radiation of space.

Still, one crucial item was missing: sustenance. The soil was almost entirely inedible, and despite the fungi’s best efforts, once it had consumed the filth in the hoofprint on which it had hiked, there was nothing else there. A part of the colony sought to expand outwards in search of food, and some mucus tendrils were lucky and found more filth; however, it was consumed quickly, and the mucus could hardly reach the distance the bull had taken in a single step. With no more food in reach, almost the entirety of the fungus went into a catatonic state of near-death, a last-ditch effort to save nutrients in a desperate plea for a future of plenty. In virtually any other timeline, this would have meant the end for this fungus as well; like the other traces left behind by the bull, this one too, would have died.

Yet a fraction, a small network within the network of the mycelium mucus, had absorbed the greatest share of nutrients from the bull’s filth. As such, it had concentrated most of the strength and power… Divine power. With it, the groggy, near-dormant fungus concentrated what power it had left in a craving search for something - anything - to help it stay alive. In an instant, using the droplet of the droplet of infinite potential trapped within the divine essence it had absorbed, the fungus broke through the barrier between the Material and the Astral. It was no star - it was not even a flicker of burnt gas; what it was, though, was enough. For the briefest, infinitesimally short blink of time, the fungus transcended into the Immaterial. It understood not what had happened, for even without its complete and utter catatonicism from starvation, it would not have had the senses nor the consciousness to describe what had just transpired. As such, with the last of its power spent, the fungus descended into a weak, doomed slumber.

… And yet, it had happened. A flicker of divine energy had permitted Galbar’s first mortal life to break the barrier between the planes. The fungus was not dead; it could very well be within an hour, but for now, it lived. The Astral Plane had felt its hunger, even for the briefest of moments, and a link had been established. The fungus, for the rest of its existence, would be irrevocably tied with the realm of the stars. Should it survive until sustenance arrives, perhaps the link could be nourished and, with time, even expand into a channel? But for now, it slept, trapped in limbo between the newly material concepts of the living and the dead.

Elsewhere, the Great Till had begun.

SummaREEEE!

Hummus flies through space and is angy. He crashes into Galbar, which makes him moar angy. He crashed through the surface and into the underground, and goes on a rampage through a section of the planet’s crust, digging channels and causing cave-ins, which create aquifers and underground lakes. He then gets tired and climbs back up to take his rage out on the surface instead.

However, unbeknownst to him, the shit on his hooves left some prints, and on some of those prints, a tiny fungus clings to life. Almost all of it dies immediately, but a tiny disk no larger than a biscuit lands in a Goldilocks spot and manages to eat enough hoofshit for it to fill up on divine essence. With this essence, it spends the last of its nutrients establishing a very weak channel to the Astral Realm. The fungus then enters a deep, near-death hibernation state, but the link persists as a miniature blip on the Astral radar.

Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay)

Hummusaharrqawatrr

&

Galaxor

---

Across the vast, endless expanse of the multiverse, a cosmic bull was grazing on the light-year long strains of gases and matter on the Flowerfield Nebula. It was quiet - even for a realm devoid of noise such as space - and the bull knew nothing but peace and quiet. Here, he had danced with the nebula for untold ages: He would eat its fill of hard matter and, after a time, release it back out again as gases into the circulation of the cosmic phenomenon. The nebula had been shaped by the bull’s grazing, and the bull had been shaped by the nebula’s abundancy. He had grown fat on its overflow of sustenance, and the nebula had grown dependent on his recycling of matter back into gas. They had domesticated each other, and neither could leave for fear of permanent, irreversible change.

All was peaceful until…

_{”Come…”}

The bull raised his head from the eternal graze. The pain of the stiffness of straightening his neck for the first time in aeons drowned out the sound, which had been as soft as the beat of a mosquito’s wing. He paid it no mind and shifted his eyes to the delicious matter below him. Yet before he could lower his head, there it was again.

“Come…”

Louder this time, yet not more audible than whisper. In absence of other noise, however, it was comparable to a yell. The bull shook, his belly with him, a quake rippling across his skin. He scowled around, horns thirstily searching for the assailant of his ear drums. Yet nobody came. The echo of the deafening whisper quieted down, and he was once again left alone. Just to be sure, he fixed his eyes on the black horizon, stars twinkling nervously all throughout his gaze. Only after an eternity that felt like the blink of an eye, did the bull’s eyelids laze down to their drowsy state.

Then, a thunder, a cacophony, a circus of a billion decibels rocked the very fabric of space encompassing the bull. The gases in his nebula quaked and dissipated like smoke in a hurricane; planets cracked apart and stars imploded and exploded like bubbles in a tub. Despite the relative emptiness of the vacuum of space in the bull’s realm, the perversely powerful soundwaves transcended the laws of nature, physics and common sense.

“OHOHO! You’ve called me, little thing?! Very well. I, Galaxor, the God of Heroes, the Hero Maker, Divine Artisan of Heroes, Celestial Forger of Legendary Champions, Master of Heroic Destinies, Architect of Heroism and Valor, Weaver of Epic Tales, Cosmic Mentor of Heroic Prodigies, the Legendary Enabler of Greatness, Creator of Champions, the Mythweaver, the Cosmic Patron of Heroic Aspirations, the Celestial Architect of Legendary Deeds, have answered your call!”

The bull could barely make sense of what happened before:

“HERE! Take some speck of my power and make my wishes known within this universe.”

The bull screamed, but he was an ant battling an elephant.

“All shall rejoice when heroes walk the world.”

Like a grain of sand to a hurricane.

“All shall learn from GALAXOR!”

_{”Shut up, pleeeaaase!”} the bull squeezed out through the storm of noise, speaking words for the first time.

“HA!”

His rage and fury twisted his muscles, bones and skin. His front limbs cracked apart and regrew into colossal, tree-trunk arms with muscles like pistons.

“HA!”

His powerful back craned upwards, lifting his massive belly off the “ground”. His hands and feet stepped in millennia old nebulaen cow pies left by himself over aeons. His transparent, celestial skin browned with maroon fury and his corporeal form filled with substance and depth.

“HA!”

His back hooves now carrying his whole weight, he stood up straight for the first time, his face growing a beard in a second as though the rage within him started pushing out whatever grew underneath his skin.

“HA!”

He hit peak anger. With a charge like a flash of lightning, the minotaur tore through the shattered space he had lived in for as long as he could remember. He gored at the walls of the multiverse with his horns and ripped apart the wall between realities until he saw on the other side, several lights and forms. With a final roar, he rent the last threads and shoved his head and half of his torso out, spotting all the forms in great detail. In their midst, he saw his target, laughing mightily as he did with an aura of glory radiating from him like the rays of the sunpool beneath them. Still halfway stuck in the tear, the minotaur forced a hand through and shook it at the heroic character.

Galaxor continued laughing with mirth usually only reserved for the most joyous occasions as his power was slowly being drained by the Codex. Taking a deep breath of…nothing, he was about to write more in the Codex, more rules, more trials, more tribulations that would haunt mortals in this universe until they became the legendary heroes worthy of the name but then he felt something. A ripple in time and space. The fabric of the multiverse itself was being ripped apart by something or someone. Only another deity would have that power. Only a deity that…shouted at him.

“SHUT UUUUUP!” He kept pushing himself through the tear, grunting and fuming as he did.

Turning his head to where the sound came from, Galaxor laughed once more, louder and stood tall, letting his perfectly sculpted muscles shine in the light of the sunpool behind him. Generating some wind, his hair waved in it and with a smile that could melt the heart of a love goddess.

Looking at what shouted at him, Galaxor studied the weirdly looking deity. It reminded him of a domestic animal of his youth but bigger and better. “Maybe that’s what happened with it! He became a deity! So, that’s what happens when you turn an animal into a hero!” he thought to himself, even his thoughts were loud, shouting within his own mind, making the heroic aura around him expand and contract as he did.

“Hello there! Are you, by any chance, Little Roxalag? Do you remember me? ” he said out loud, fully ignoring the “Shut Up”.

The bull would not be out-ignored and reverse-ignored his smug reply. With great effort, he pushed his enormous body through the tear and kicked off from the nothing beneath his filthy hooves. As he flew at the herculean figure before him, he wound up a straight punch. “GRRRRRRIIIIT THOSE TEEEEEEEEEETH!” he cried.

Surprised, Galaxor laughed once more, his hands going on his belly.

“Oh? You’re trying to fight, little one? ” said Galaxor, looking into a different direction as he did.

The bull’s colossal body approached Galaxor at lightning speed and only when he was a mere meter away, Galaxor let out a loud yawn and grabbed the bull’s fist, all while still looking away and spinned him around. As he spun him, after a few seconds, he stopped and placed the bull nicely in front of himself before giving him a gentle flick of his finger on the bull’s nose.

“HA! HA! I win. You’ve still got a lot to learn, little Roxalag! ” continued Galaxor with a gentle smile. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone if asked, but he found the bull’s reaction, kinda cute.

The bull’s skin turned from maroon to crimson, a blush so powerful that it threatened to cook him from the inside. He looked up at the smirking, perfect face that had treated him like a toy and could hardly control his breath. He wound up another blow, this time an uppercut, blaring, “Sh-SHUT UP!”

Galaxor raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "Ahhh…they never learn." he said before pulling his head back, more than it would be normally possible and at breathtaking speed used it to connect with the bull's fist.

A massive explosion of force as the two divines connected followed. As the cosmic dust cleared, Galaxor's aura shined through. If one would look at him, one could see that he wasn't even remotely hurt while his opponent's hand was battered and bruised.

"Little one. Stop, you're just hurting yourself. Let me give you some advice. Go back wherever you came from, train for a few eons and let's spar again. If you continue, I'll be forced to take this as a challenge and I, Galaxor, the God of Heroes, the Hero Maker, Divine Artisan of Heroes, Celestial Forger of Legendary Champions, Master of Heroic Destinies, Architect of Heroism and Valor, Weaver of Epic Tales, Cosmic Mentor of Heroic Prodigies, the Legendary Enabler of Greatness, Creator of Champions, the Mythweaver, the Cosmic Patron of Heroic Aspirations, the Celestial Architect of Legendary Deeds, face all my challenges with extreme force. "

The bull didn’t reply. He was soaring away like a comet across the sky, dazed as though he had made out with a rockslide. He groaned something out into the nothingness of the ether, his fist a funny pudding of bones and skin. The stump lead the way, like a clump of lead at the end of a fishing line. After a good ten minutes or so (time wasn’t really a thing quite yet), he was still out of it, but at least he was conscious again. The rage threatened to choke him, so to ease up on the pressure, he readied his other fist. Just one punch - JUST ONE! That would show him! He kicked off yet again and flew right back towards Galaxor, albeit from a longer distance away and clearly slowed by the pain.

“I WILL MAKE YOU PAY FOR TAKING ME AWAY FROM MY PASTURE!”

Putting his hands in front of him, Galaxor looked confused.

"I've got no idea what you're talking about but if you want a fight. Fine. I'll show you the differences between our skills. " replied Galaxor to the bull before taking a deep breath, growing in size as he did.

Now standing at 6 meters tall, his heroic aura shined bright, almost like a small sun and with a clap, he took off at breathtaking speed. Faster than the bull, faster than before, he caught the bull's horns mid-flight and spun him around a few times before throwing him away. But he didn't stop there, as the bull was flying, Galaxor caught up to him, punched him in the opposite direction and continued to do so a few more times. Battering the bull’s body with blows. These blows were not at full strength but enough to teach him and all others that might watch, that Galaxor is not to be trifled with. After a few more hits, he grabbed the bull by the neck and looked him in the eye.

“Yield. ” said Galaxor. Only one word but it was said with a commanding tone only known to divine beings. The tone of a god talking with his mortals. Gone was the cheery and full of life Galaxor. Instead, the Hero Galaxor came out. The true Galaxor. The fighter. The legendary warrior.

The bull hung from his hands like a dead fur. He was very clearly alive - barely - but he seemed to be completely knocked out. A horn had been cracked and his face was overgrown with swellings. He grunted something small, but it was very clear that the fight had been knocked out of him. He let out a small “prrt…” and some filth dripped off a bruised hoof.

“Very well.” said the Hero Galaxor with the same tone as before.

As he released the bull, his heroic aura dimmed once more to what it was at the beginning. Looking at the beaten divine, Galaxor smiled at him and put his hands together. Divine energy formed between his hands, glowing brighter and brighter before becoming a tiny ball similar to a sun. The ball flew from Galaxor’s hands and went into the bull, healing him of his most serious injuries.

“HA! HA! HA! Now that was something! Phew! Thank you for the entertainment, little Roxalag. Are you calmer now? Introduce yourself. Tell me your titles and name. ” said Galaxor to the now-healed divine.

The swelling faded around the bull’s eyes, and underneath them dwelt a scowl. He snorted angrily, which incited a cough: “Hugch-huch-HUMMUSahaqawattr!” he hacked. It was then that a flash flickered in his eyes. His rage had yet to subside, but he no longer seemed aggressive - at least not against Galaxor, for fear of ending up a steak. He kicked off again, this time away with all haste, ignoring the hero god’s attempt at peace brokering. Instead, he shook his fist again as he flew off into space. “YOU WIN THIS TIME, YOU DAMN YELLER! I will never forget this!” His orb-like body soared through empty space like a comet, seeking a distant corner to sulk in.

Galaxor laughed as he saw Hummus running away and waved at him.

“Not many forget their first encounter with GALAXOR! You take care now, learn a bit more and challenge me again, Hummus! You were fun to play with!” shouted Galaxor before taking off too. He wasn’t sure where to go but he knew he would hang around this universe. It was a fun one.

Summary

A space cow eats and shits gas in an alternate universe. The loud fucking voice of Sloth sorta bothers him, but the absolute shit concert of Galaxor’s entrance shatters the very universe this cow lives in. In pure rage, the cow morphs into a minotaur, jumps through into the Galbarverse and tries to punch Galaxor. Galaxor beats him into a pulp and the bull, who coughs his name into existence, runs off and promises revenge.

Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay)

The Farmotaur

Hummusaharrqawatrr

”Hummus”, The Taskmaster, “The First to Till”

Domain
Agriculture

Description

Agriculture is the taming and domestication of wild plants to meet the needs of the domesticator; it is claiming the plant for one’s own, altering it through selection of the best harvests, and gradually morphing it into something completely different from its wild cousins. Yet it is not a slavish relationship, for just as the agricultured is domesticated, so does the agricultured domesticate. A tribe settles down in a valley of wheat and barley and tames the land for their own use; generations later, they have been shaped by the valley, their lives dedicated to furthering the wellness of the wheat and barley. Society pours resources by the tonnes into the safekeeping and preservation of the agricultured, raising armies and walls to defend the harvest at all costs. Temples and monuments are constructed in honour of the plants that were once wild and ever threaten to abandon their self-proclaimed domesticators should they ever forget to till the soil, spread the manure, remove the pests and irrigate them.

Agriculture is a relationship; it is a hostage situation; it is a haggle; it is a dance. It binds the mobile and the immobile to the soil; it locks the seed and the sole to the seasons. If either is out of tune, the whole song flattens and sharpens like the blade of a knife. If the plants grow out of control, they will attract predators and pests and put the whole field at risk; if the farmer forgets to irrigate, the rest of the year may be in jeopardy.

Furthermore, like any other relationship, it does not stop with the two; each has their own to consider, and while the enemy of my enemy is my friend, friends of friends may swing either way. Neglect the needs of the agricultured to interact with the wild they came from, and they may rebel; ignore the needs of the growing populations of the agriculteur, and they will move heaven and earth in desperation to satisfy them.

In summary, the power of agriculture allows Hummus to act as matchmaker between a domesticator and a domesticatee, showing both species how to please the other and enter into a lasting relationship of agricultural exploitation. He can teach mortals what seeds to grow and plants what demands to make of mortals. He helps mortals wrest the plants from the wilds and convinces the plants that they never wanted to be wild to begin with. He works them both to the bone to ensure that mortality’s growth is never stalled, and is strict and ruthless to those who return to the ways of the wild.

Appearance

Hummus is a massive minotaur, standing well over three metres and boasting width in both shoulders, arms and belly. His skin is brown like fertile soil and wrinkled like the husks of dry grain. Every nook and cranny of his body is either dusty with dirt or caked in it. His hooves are constantly stained with fresh soil and hot manure, and his beard sports speckles of gnawed cereals and droplets of sticky fruit juice. The tip of his horns are never clean, but brown with freshly-tilled earth.

Hummus’s body is clad in armour of bone and fibre linen, fashioned from mortals and plants who refused to obey his commands. He dons pendants of gold offerings made to him by desperate mortals and plants seeking his favour, and a fat, golden disk amplifies his already fat belly to indicate his mighty appetite for further sacrifice. In his left hand, he grasps the Chain of Flax, the rope with which he traps the agriculteurs in their eternal dance; in his right hand, he wields Hoepebreaker, the legendary farming tool with which he first tilled the soil and banished the wildness of nature from his realm.

Description

Hummus is a wicked and power-hungry god, viewing himself as the progenitor and saviour of all urbanised life, the antithesis of the wildlands of Allianthé. He is scheming, ruthless and strict towards those who worship him - as fickle and unpredictable as the season, he treats his worshippers like guests one day and then casts a draught upon them for the next three years. He claims his power and position with gusto, dreaming of one day ruling the world and its gods and to ascend to the Outer Plane to join infinity as its master.

Musical Theme

Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay)

Hummusaharrqawatrr

”Hummus”, The Taskmaster, “The First to Till”

Domain
Agriculture

Description

Agriculture is the taming and domestication of wild plants to meet the needs of the domesticator; it is claiming the plant for one’s own, altering it through selection of the best harvests, and gradually morphing it into something completely different from its wild cousins. Yet it is not a slavish relationship, for just as the agricultured is domesticated, so does the agricultured domesticate. A tribe settles down in a valley of wheat and barley and tames the land for their own use; generations later, they have been shaped by the valley, their lives dedicated to furthering the wellness of the wheat and barley. Society pours resources by the tonnes into the safekeeping and preservation of the agricultured, raising armies and walls to defend the harvest at all costs. Temples and monuments are constructed in honour of the plants that were once wild and ever threaten to abandon their self-proclaimed domesticators should they ever forget to till the soil, spread the manure, remove the pests and irrigate them.

Agriculture is a relationship; it is a hostage situation; it is a haggle; it is a dance. It binds the mobile and the immobile to the soil; it locks the seed and the sole to the seasons. If either is out of tune, the whole song flattens and sharpens like the blade of a knife. If the plants grow out of control, they will attract predators and pests and put the whole field at risk; if the farmer forgets to irrigate, the rest of the year may be in jeopardy.

Furthermore, like any other relationship, it does not stop with the two; each has their own to consider, and while the enemy of my enemy is my friend, friends of friends may swing either way. Neglect the needs of the agricultured to interact with the wild they came from, and they may rebel; ignore the needs of the growing populations of the agriculteur, and they will move heaven and earth in desperation to satisfy them.

In summary, the power of agriculture allows Hummus to act as matchmaker between a domesticator and a domesticatee, showing both species how to please the other and enter into a lasting relationship of agricultural exploitation. He can teach mortals what seeds to grow and plants what demands to make of mortals. He helps mortals wrest the plants from the wilds and convinces the plants that they never wanted to be wild to begin with. He works them both to the bone to ensure that mortality’s growth is never stalled, and is strict and ruthless to those who return to the ways of the wild.

Appearance

Hummus is a massive minotaur, standing well over three metres and boasting width in both shoulders, arms and belly. His skin is brown like fertile soil and wrinkled like the husks of dry grain. Every nook and cranny of his body is either dusty with dirt or caked in it. His hooves are constantly stained with fresh soil and hot manure, and his beard sports speckles of gnawed cereals and droplets of sticky fruit juice. The tip of his horns are never clean, but brown with freshly-tilled earth.

Hummus’s body is clad in armour of bone and fibre linen, fashioned from mortals and plants who refused to obey his commands. He dons pendants of gold offerings made to him by desperate mortals and plants seeking his favour, and a fat, golden disk amplifies his already fat belly to indicate his mighty appetite for further sacrifice. In his left hand, he grasps the Chain of Flax, the rope with which he traps the agriculteurs in their eternal dance; in his right hand, he wields Hoepebreaker, the legendary farming tool with which he first tilled the soil and banished the wildness of nature from his realm.

Description

Hummus is a wicked and power-hungry god, viewing himself as the progenitor and saviour of all urbanised life, the antithesis of the wildlands of Allianthé. He is scheming, ruthless and strict towards those who worship him - as fickle and unpredictable as the season, he treats his worshippers like guests one day and then casts a draught upon them for the next three years. He claims his power and position with gusto, dreaming of one day ruling the world and its gods and to ascend to the Outer Plane to join infinity as its master.

Musical Theme

Orion Asunder (Space Opera NRP)

The Mandenic Mansadom WIP

The Mandenic Mansadom

Map Location:
The Mansadom occupies a circle of systems ringwards of the outer regions of the Augustan Empire, an area normally referred to as either the Boukour Loop, the Circlet of Mandé or the Edge of the Storm. The reason for this naming scheme is that the hyperlane network between the solar systems of all the Mansadom worlds form a ring around a supermassive black hole at the centre of the loop, called the White Eye, the Storm in the Void or the Bright Grave. This black hole has a bright accretion disk and severely hampers hyperlane travel anywhere near it, forcing travel around it instead. Due to its energy output, many power companies and state engineers have proposed enormous projects to capture its beams in massive solar panel arrays; however, no such project has been completed as of yet.

Government Type:
Oligarchic monarchy lead by Mansa Abdoulmaye II of the Khourboukdao dynasty, a harkback to the ancient kings and emperors of the First and Second Malian Empires back on Earth. The mansa is in theory supposed to be kept in check by the Parliament in the capital system Manden, but the current mansa’s grandfather, Ahmoud II Khourboukdao, initiated several reforms to strengthen the monarchy in the face of widespread rebellion in the autumn of his reign. His son, Ahmoud III, continued in his father’s footsteps and had the Parliament pass the Renaissance Act, which made it so all decisions made by Parliament would have to be approved by the mansa or the mansa’s small cabinet of advisors, known as the Elders’ Council or Les Anciens. The class of religious scholars and imams known as the Learned, or Les Ulames, also holds considerable power as they made up the mass of bureaucrats, statesmen and clergy that enact the mansa’s will on his peoples.

Furthermore, the Mansadom is a vassal state of the Augustan Empire, but has recently wrested additional freedoms from their overlord during a short period of decline. However, as an independent state, the Mansadom would never survive - as it is wholly dependent on access to the internal imperial market and the protection of the imperial armed forces.

Demographics:
The Mandenic Mansadom is home to both humans and many species of xenos, all united under two principles:

1) their faith in Allah and in that Muhammad is His prophet.

2) their fear of the extrasolar barbarians beyond the Boukour Loop.

The majority of humans in the Mansadom are descendents of colonists who arrived with the Orion Rim Colonisation Programme (ORCP), colloquially called “Le Deuxième Jennat” or “the Second Jennat”. The ORCP was initiated several centuries ago by the Federation of West Africa (La Fédération d’Afrique Ouest) back on Earth, a union of francophone African states who had united to become a considerable player on the Tellusian stage. The Mandens, as they are called, are largely black or dark brown with black hair, with local variations resulting from planetary conditions. The humans of Manden are the most similar to the original colonists, while the Mandens of the tunnel-cities on the frozen planet of Koufada are almost pale and gray with albino features. The majority of Mandens are farmers, fishermen, pastoralists and asteroid miners. Many also make up much of the middle class in the form of merchants, teachers, clergy and academicians. The upper class are almost exclusively made up of Mandens.

Hailing from the planet of Simkoufa-III, an ocean planet barely dotted with other land than a few islands and polar ice caps, the xeno race known as the Géless dominate the waters all pelagic zones of the unending oceans. The Géless are a race of “xenocetaceans”, classified thusly because of their outwards similarity of Tellusian whales. However, many will find after examining them more closely that they could hardly be further from the fact. The Géless are colony-feeders, meaning they feed on the enormous quantities of algae and plankton that grow in the thick “beard” of bristles around the length of their long mouth. Their migration patterns expose them to nearly all layers of the sea where life can thrive (at least to an extent), filling their bristles with nutrients that the algae and zooplankton can grow numerous on. The Géless can grow up to forty metres in length and weigh up to 150 tons.

Similar to hypotheses about cetaceans from Old Tellus, initial colonisers of Simkoufa-III proposed that the Géless were intelligent beings with complex social structures. They regarded them as an alien whale and gave it little thought beyond simple biometric scans for the sake of expanding the genetic biobank. However, as the years passed, a Manden biologist by the name of Aboubakher Ismaïl Doukana was listening in on a Géless colony in a nearby ocean sector when the clock struck five in the afternoon. What he initially mistook as the sound of the minarets coming from outside turned out to be coming from the Géless: The oldest bull was singing its own adhan while the others were silent. Dr. Doukana couldn’t believe what he had found and soon after received funding from the House of Academicians to conduct large-scale research into human-Géless communications. After nearly ten years, his team produced the first comprehensible translation programme to enable cross-species communication. What followed were inquiries into how the Géless had come to learn and practice Islam; over the years, the trend Dr. Doukana had initially discovered

(The people of your nation, human, xeno or both. It could be as simple as a percentage list with pics, a small paragraph or whatever you feel is best)

Military: (The fun part! What’s defending your nation in these uncertain times? You can provide as much or as little detail as you like. Can’t also forget, showing tons of pictures of what their soldiers, vehicles and ships look like :P)

History: The Storm in the Void, a massive black hole, dominates the centre of the Mandenic Mansadom, spewing forth great bouts of energy that feed the solar arrays on Manden and Gao, but also complicates hyperlane travel and intersystem trade. This has forced each world within the Mandenic Mansadom to grow increasingly independent, which has weakened the throne on Manden. (Speaks for itself. It can as brief or detailed as you wish.)

Re:Divinus VII

It began with the tribe of Ozymandia. Ozymandia and her kin had been unfortunate enough to count among the few elves to be spawned outside the fortress-city of Earthwall. To demonstrate the reasons why their caring mother Celestine had forged the city in the first place, the Ozymandians - even in their mighty elven forms - had struggled against the wrath of nature. The taiga offered little of sustenance beyond hunting, forcing migrations that teared at the stamina of the tribe as a whole. Boar hide and stag skin made for decent clothing in the summer, but once the winter came, the taiga became its own kind of hell. With game suffering as much as they did, the elves were forced to chew on lichen and bark for sustenance. Further casualties resulted, for even a resistance to winter cold couldn’t sate their crippling hunger.

It wasn’t until Ozymandia’s eldest daughter, Ozara, discovered the entrance to what would be their salvation, that the Ozymandians could truly know peace and security. Ozara, while scouting for game with a party of her siblings and cousins, had stumbled upon a cave in the snow. Fearing it might be inhabited by beasts, they had advanced with care. However, as minutes gathered in the tens, the party quickly realised that this was no mere cave, but a tunnel - and it sure was a lot warmer than the outside. A messenger had been sent back to tell the others; swiftly they had followed him back, for the camp was already packed at that point. The Ozymandians arrived in the cave to settle, but only a generation passed before they outgrew their own ability to scavenge the overworld for food in a sustainable manner. Ozara and Ozymandia then fell out over the next course of action.

Ozymandia wanted to remain at the cave mouth - perhaps try their luck again in the overworld.

Ozara, on the other hand, wanted to delve deeper - further.

In the end, the mother and daughter would separate, most following their chieftess while the bravest - or most foolish - followed the heiress.

In the years to follow, Ozymandia and her tribe would never hear from Ozara and her followers again. They sent scouts into the caves on occasion, but they always returned empty-handed - if they returned. However, the bond between mother and child is strong, and the chieftess could feel her daughter’s pulse through the fabric of space.

She was alive… Somehow.

---

Deep in the black belly of the world - beyond the edges of light and air - one would think nothing could live. At least, nothing not accustomed to the life down below. Here, where surfacers came to die, another people thrived. Kept secret from the heavens, these creatures knew only the shadows of the earth and the light of its veins. Their diets of alkalichen, cavern cantarelles and irongrubs turned their skins red as clay, brightened to a flaming crimson by the underground magma offering what light it could. Their skin filtered out the vast amounts of chalk in their water sources, which formed a porous, yet helpful natural armour layer atop their skin. Considerably shorter than they used to be, their forms had to change to fit the narrow channels through the stone, as their bones changed to resist the many dangers of the Underground. These creatures grew numerous and pioneered new caves in the Hob, the great networks and pockets of limestone caverns. Led by their new chieftess Ozara, these new hobgoblins spread far and wide within their new home, taking in the glorious creations of the Earthwarden… And of their patron.

With time, each cave developed into their own tribes and engaged in trade with one another, helped by the Worming Bazaar led by the Procurement-Princes of the Umbralground and their host of mercenaries. These were the Centaurions of the Crater, humans, kinnaras and centaurs fighting for a living, and the hunters of the Rimeteeth tribe, legendary trackers of the Tundra - all of them demonstrating the vast diversity of peoples in the Underground. Connecting to the greater network of the Land Under Land, the hobgoblin tribes prospered under Ozara.

But then, as surprising to the hobgoblins as as super volcano to the Steppe dwellers, Ozara died - not of hunger, not of wounds, but of age. The hobgoblins realised then that the agelessness of Elvenkind had left them and they prayed for their patron to come save them.

And so he had come - on time - the Bureaucrat, to oversee his latest pilot project. The reasoning had been, since the Ferryman and his Souls Inc. were already immensely overworked, the Bureaucrat would solve the problem at its roots: Too many people were dying. Changing otherwise doomed creatures into something else had been quite successful, as the hobgoblins had shown. However, death followed all life all the same, and the Bureaucrat knew that anything done to help the living was always a temporary solution.

The hobgoblins pleaded with him: What should they do, they asked - their leader had left the world and would never return!

While the Bureaucrat was very aware of the ghost of Ozara before him weeping for all her kin that she had left behind, he nonetheless offered them consolation. New leaders would rise, surely - right now, it was more important to ensure that the corpse of their chieftess would be properly cared for and that her ghost would be properly tended to until the Ferryman would arrive. At this, the hobgoblins frowned in confusion, but then the Bureaucrat shook the hand of Ozara's daughter. An eerie blue flash blinded everyone present, and when their vision returned, nothing had changed. Well, nothing drastic, but Ozara's daughter Ozymala was crying - crying and reaching out into the air before her. Her hand gripped something, but nothing could be seen - yet it was far too firm a grip to be grasping simple air.

As the hours of resting neared, Ozymala would hold a ceremony for her mother, lighting Monoxen coal aflame and burning her corpse down to the alkaline ash and glowing iron at the core of their beings. The ashes were then spread over the three rivers of her home village. As the others rested, Ozymala remained awake for the whole night, singing in a mystical language that rumours said only ghosts could understand. When she sang, the deep seemed to quiver; the waters seemed to ripple; and, most frighteningly, a most unfamiliar phenomenon to the underdwellers could be felt - gusts of wind flew by as they would on the surface.

Thus was created the first Death-Singer, a most trusted colleague of the Bureaucrat.

And surely, new leaders did rise, and like on the surface, disagreements brought them to separation. The hobgoblins thus spread out throughout the Hob and beyond, exploring the Underground as new citizens of Lektor’s realm.

Summaree

Some Elves got fucked by fate and put in the taiga. Temperature is one thing, but there’s jackshit to eat, so they die like flies. They eventually find shelter in some caves, but soon have to move on account of the areas around the cave running out of food. The majority decide to move on while the minority decide to delve deeper.

Those who delve deeper become hobgoblins with a lil’ help from the Bureaucrat. The hobgoblins then experience their first death by age, which alerts them to the fact that they are no longer virtually immortal. The Bureaucrat cares as much as he’s expected to to be polite and makes the Necromanagers, a holy order of babysitters for the dead.

Then the hobgoblins spread around the Hob and beyond in the underground.

Might

The Ferryman/The Bureaucrat 5MP/5AP
4MP - Create the Hob, a large, limestone cave biome in the northeastern caverns. Despite the fact that the only thing saving this realm from pitch-black darkness is weakly glowing magma veins, this biome thrives with thousands of species feasting on the rich mineral soil or on whatever grows from said feast. There are lakes and rivers aplenty full of calcium-rich waters to the point where the water is constantly white or gray, and lichen fields and mushroom plains give the whole Hob a mossy texture. As the caves are made of limestone, they are also quite porous and moldeable.

Some charismatic species here include:

• Alkalichen which grows like a spongy grass on the cavern floor, walls and ceiling;
• Cavern cantarelles, which grow tall as reeds on the cavern rock;
  Irongrubs, which are juicy, metallic little caterpillars the size of rats that feed on rust and exposed iron veins;
• Monoxen, coal-black sponges that eat the carbon in carbon monoxide and release oxygen. Form porous coal structures when they die;
• Underpeas, a colourless legume that grows on limestone and next to chalky water. They absorb nitrogen from the air and become nearly the only source of it for other creatures. This makes them a keystone species in the Hob as many creatures depend on nitrogen-rich feces from creatures eating underpeas to survive;
• Lobstermites, a large lobster suited for subterranean life that eats most of what it finds down here. Very territorial and extremely dangerous if threatened;
• Maxolotls, monstrous aquatic beasts that rule the chalky lakes and rivers in the Hob. In truth, they are mutated dragons of the surface, morphed from lost dragons found in the Underground caves. Like their surface siblings, the Maxolotls are apex predators and rule their territory with tooth and claw.

1MP - Mutate Elves into Hobgoblins: The Elves of Ozara that journeyed into the Underground have become Hobgoblins. In exchange for their 350-year lifespan and resistance to temperatures, the Hobgoblins have perfect darkvision (though have very poor sight in daylight); they sweat limestone which gives their skin a porous but helpful natural armour; they are not as tall as their Elven kin, but their iron-rich diets give them powerful bones and thick blood to the point where their skeleton is immensely hard and rust when exposed to air.

2AP - Create the Cadaverpillars: Known more commonly as Market Maggots on account of the Umbralground Umbra using them as moveable bazaars. However, in truth, the Cadaverpillars double as effective transport for both the living and the dead. Born with a natural affinity for sensing and, more importantly, interacting with the dead, these 35 metre long, 6 metre wide worms are technically tasked with carrying the souls of the dead to afterlives all around. In truth, what ends up happening is that the living learn to tame them, pack them with harnesses for their stores and wares, and then the dead just hitch a hike. Cadaverpillars feed on cave moss, mushrooms and alkalichen.

3AP - Create The Necromanagers: A holy order under the Ferryman created by the Bureaucrat. Seeing as the Ferryman cannot be everywhere at once, the souls of the dead might find themselves waiting a bit for their ride to the afterlife. This is where the Necromanagers come in. Death-singers, witch doctors, undertakers, grave-dancers, mediums - they go by many names. Common for all Necromanagers is their shared purpose of looking after and caring for the dead until their souls are picked up and safely escorted to the afterlife. As such, they have natural affinity for seeing and speaking to the dead, and can interact with them as though they were alive.

The Ferryman/Bureaucrat 0MP/0AP