Moren
Mother of the Night, Veiled Lady, The Last Embrace are some of the titles Moren is referred to as the Goddess of Darkness and Death. She oversees nighttime and presides over shadows, shrouding areas in darkness as a refuge for those who seek cover, rest, or anonymity. She can offer concealement, camouflage, guidance in the dark, as well as a sense of calm to those under her umbral wing, while her detractors may find themselves stumbling about unseeing, their torches snuffed, their anxiety mounting as menacing dark wisps cavort to distract them. Regardless of who they are or how she felt about them when they lived, when one perishes, Moren opens her arms in welcome, granting them their final repose, accompanying them as they transition between this life and the next.
Moren is worshipped mainly by those who benefit from the cover of darkness and those who deal in death; rogues, fugitives, executioners, mercenaries, funeral workers, the terminally ill and dying, even some doctors who pray to ward her off if only for a moment longer. But there are others who may turn to her: the sleepless mother nursing her crying babe, the tired worker on his long night shift, the traveller camping out at night, the child afraid of nightmares and monsters under their bed, the odd grave robber or cave explorer, the prey seeking to escape a night's predator, or the hunter at dusk and twilight.
Appearance:Moren often watches unnoticed, but when she allows her visage to be seen by mortals, it is a distinct one. She takes the form of a curvaceous woman standing at 5'4, garbed in dark colours, her face never fully revealed. Her robes can be simple yet elegant sable chiffon, a heavy dark blue or purplish garment embroidered in delicate floral design, or shifting shadowy layers wrapped around her figure. On her person, she carries one of her symbols, a freshly plucked white lily; pinned to her chest, woven into a wreath, or carried in her hand. What little of her face is seen is a lovely, sweet one, but whether a veil or a mask, at least the upper half is always covered. They say that to meet her gaze is to witness Death - a thing no mortal can withstand and live to tell the tale.
Motivation:Where there is light, there too lingers darkness. With life comes death. That is how it must be. To Moren, these are immutable facts to be wrought into the very fabric of reality. Some beings can only thrive in the dark, while others might seek in it a temporary refuge. She provides for all, whatever their reason or motive. It is not easy to earn her wrath, but there are acts she will punish. To her, seeking to eliminate all darkness is as impermissible as aiming to destroy all light. In her ideal world, there will always be shadows - but not
only that.
Whether saint or sinner, in the end, Moren accepts them all. When a life is extinguished, she welcomes its remnants into her fold, and all is forgiven and forgotten. All those souls are for her to care, to protect, and to send off - whether into the next life, into the cosmos, or wherever else they may go. She detests the tampering with death: within any (non-godly) immortals, she will imbue flaws by which they may be slain, while attempts at resurrection are usually cursed. Contacting spirits is permissible, with success more likely if her blessing is sought beforehand. Anyone who attempts to subjugate the souls of the perished, however, will be struck down. Death is meant to be freeing, and her realm is a refuge to the deceased; to meddle with it is to transgress against not only her but the world's sacred law.
As for the ever-living gods? Moren is convinced they, too, will one day come to an end, as will the world itself. If Fate favours her belief, she will be the final act, the last performer to bow out before the curtains draw close.
RP Example:She had been drawn to him, the man who was called the Maiden’s Blade, who was said to be an instrument of her will. He was not, and he knew it, for he had never once uttered her name. But both his enemies and followers dreaded him, whispering he must be a champion of hers. Death was sewn as he waged his great war, countless felled by his hands and by his orders day and night. Moren was there to collect, as she always was, but this time, she decided to follow and observe him for a bit longer.
Moren trailed after him light as a specter, her ghostly presence not felt by any but those on death’s doors. And there were many. The Blade marched his army on another’s, scores of soldiers, mercenaries, and armed peasants killed in this rebellion of his. Her comforting touch would be granted to all as they breathed their last, passing over to the afterlife under her watch.
As she knelt by one of the Blade’s comrades, the man gurgling blood as he perished, her hand on his shoulder, enough of her divine power leaked out that her target of interest noticed.
“You’re here again?” He rasped, fire-fuelled gaze landing near her.
Smiling softly, she materialized after she’d gathered the dead one’s soul, rising as she turned to the man who was said to carry her gift. “You’ve sent many my way again.”
“Are you pleased?”
A tinkling laugh followed. Unseen by him, her eyes bled black. “Is that what you think?” she asked gently. “…Are
you pleased with the killing?” she wondered, the question quiet as a leaf carried by the breeze.
His gaze flitted past at the bodies littering the desolate battlefield, his enemies having retreated, his allies regrouping, picking through the dead to recover their fallen friends. His fist clenched around the hilt of his bloody blade. “It’s necessary,” he said after a long moment, expression grim as if cut from stone.
“Then you understand.” Moren didn’t like killing nor did she dislike it. Mortals were fated to die. Whether young or old, fair or unfair…one day, she would claim them all. In the grand scheme of things, how their death came to be didn’t matter.
With night came quiet, small critters having fled the area, and as her black shroud enveloped the land, she imbued it with a moment of peace. At the very least, the survivors' bodies would be lulled into sleep, though she had no influence on their dreams.
Years passed, and the Blade was crowned as a leader of his people, now hailed King and Savior, his old title forgotten. His realm had far fewer violent deaths than there had ever been before. They prayed to her in remembrance of the fallen, and as usual, there was a part of the populace who turned to her as Mother of the Night.
One day, a cry echoed far and wide, prickling her divine sense. “MOREN, DAMN YOU!!” And that wasn’t too unusual, but the voice was familiar. She descended to the mortal realm to see what had occurred.
The King was in a private chamber, his son lying on a bed, pale, shivering, and feverish. Dying. Abandoned medical equipment lay strewn all around, a physician standing in a corner, head bowed.
The Goddess walked on silent feet to the son, grasping his palm. He’d been poisoned, she could tell.
“Why.” His father cried. “Why him?” The king questioned.
She appeared as the son’s spirit passed into her hands. “I thought you knew,” she mused. “Death is a necessity.” Moren gazed at the pitiful human. “You two will reunite one day. Live while you can, oh dear blade of mine.”
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