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In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Klaarungraxus


Klaar ruminated in the shallow waters off the coast of the vast continent pulled up by the boar god Boris at the beginning of the world. To the animal life that flourished inland, Klaar’s presence would be recognized more as an entire, strangely colored island suddenly rising from the oceans rather than as a creature, so immense was the girthy protuberance jutting out from the waters. The large, multihued eyes belied a sense of scale as they twisted and turned in opposing directions, absorbing all there was to see regarding this world above the waves.

In Klaar’s heart, he knew he looked upon the work of his equal. The world tree, as tall and wide as Klaar could ever dream to be, loomed in the horizon. In the light of the setting sun Klaar watched the illuminated silhouette of the Old Growth Above and longed for a meeting of minds. One day, several tentacles assured the overmind, they would get such an opportunity. Until then, Klaar was able to grasp at the creations of the Tree of Genesis with fawning appreciation. Each and every one of them was beautiful, reminiscent of their artist in each and every way. The life above seemed far more soothing than it was below and Klaar often found himself perturbed that the fauna of the Deep were not simply made of beautiful corals and swaying sea grasses; surely it was working on land.

”Thou hath cast thine image beyond mine reach, oh, blessed mirror of root and sky. How I hath yearned for thine emerald mind.”

As Klaar intoned the Deepspeak words of his thoughts, his yearning was made manifest. Waves lapped at the edges of the continent like grasping hands, reaching desperately inland and away from the shore. White waters crashed and receded and so too did one eye roll downwards to observe with newly spawned fascination workings of water on the sand. As waves dragged back into their home, no longer able to brave the harsh surface world, rivers and rivulets of glistening ocean blood dragged helpless sand back in their clutches. Surely, Klaar reasoned, the sea would not surrender so easily when faced with such an obstacle as a simple beach.

”Damnable shoreline, thy will to malice outstrips thine use,” Disdain and consternation overwhelmed the old god, beak clicking a slow yet furious beat as all eyes turned their attention to the shore.

”Knowest thee now to be mine equal when erstwhile thou hath been mine progeny!? Damn thee, shoreline! No strand can be mine master! Klaarungraxus defies thee!”

One great tentacle rose from the water, threatening the destruction of the dastardly shoreline that served as Klaar’s great antagonist. The huge was lifted above the shoreline before Klaar before descending onto that most vile of foes. The tip of the tentacle thrust into the sands and dragged a small crevasse in the sand. Water flooded into the wound left in the shore and Klaar leaned in to watch his rival drown. His intent gaze remained locked on the water flooding into the new space made by Klaar’s vicious attack on the continent. Cogs the size of boulders turned in his head as dread mathematics and calculations at the biochemical level were done at breakneck speek.

”It dawns on me . . . “

A burst of awareness overtook Klaar’s mind then, each tentacle pinging back agreement till consensus was reached. With one blow Klaar had been able to determine his enemy’s weakness once and for all and provide a potential step to finally contacting the Tree of Genesis as he so craved. He could at long last view the works of that twin above the waves close at hand, grasp at the trunks and leaves he had never experienced and deepen his own grasp of the marvelous art that was creation.

The foolish shoreline had proven it could be its own undoing.

Klaar began to whisper soft calls in Deepspeak to the waters, little soliloquies and know-nothings that made water dance to his tune. An entire stretch of beach, nearly a kilometer in length, seemed to sink lower into the ground. Water hefted sand across the surface, pushing this soil of Klaar’s own making to far corners of this new envisioned world. Soon multiple channels formed, deep enough for life to inhabit but not enough for the land to be drowned. Klaar was confident if he so wished he could drown the entire continent with little effort but this would accomplish little; then the works of the Tree of Genesis would be ruined and the beauties it had wrought would be turned to rot and muck before Klaar could admire them. No, a more insidious solution had been devised through the shoreline’s taunting.

Why not simply move the ocean inland?

Tentacles followed the inlets into the shoreline, life sprouting in their wake. Unlike the reefs and kelp forests nestled gently beneath the waves, the horrors of the sun softened by the waters of Klaar’s own making, the life spawned here would need to be more robust. Large, terrestrial corals began growing, their life cycles accelerated to an insane rate till they towered like trees. Rocky outcroppings were pulled from the sandy soil to give new, sessile life anchors to grow on and one by one new species popped up from the tentacles’ inquisitive probings. Huge anemones grasped at the air with phyto-reactive, bright green limbs while frond-like appendages thrust forth from barnacle-like organisms to drink up the sun’s life-giving rays. Towering stalks of land-kelp rose up towards the sky with large globes filled with lighter-than-air gasses keeping them afloat. At the edges and between the columns of coral, fields of sea-grasses grew. It was, in every way, the sea brought to land.

Klaar wriggled with ecstatic joy; this was EXACTLY what he had so desired. Though the terrestrial reefs were not necessarily as majestic as the forests now covering the surface of the continent they certainly had their own, aquatic charm. But, with such a blossoming environment it could not simply be enough to leave it as is; life must teem, afterall.

Sliding back into the sea just at the mouth of this coral-born estuary, Klaar began roiling up the seafloor into a great cloud of darkened waters. From the expanding cloud of sand and muck spawned forth a myriad of organisms, most either life intended to live in the low tidal pools between the corals or to climb about their surfaces. Coral Mites, as numerous in shape as snowflakes, billowed forth from the murky brine to inhabit their new home. The oddly diverse crustaceans disappeared into sand, hollows in the coral, or the clumps of grasses that brought color to the channels.

With the basis of life formed, Klaar drew forth from the waves ever more diverse array of organisms to fill out this new niche environment. Building from the ground up in terms of the complex food chain that would need to be formed, Klaar simultaneously crafted a number of quadrupedal crustaceans, born of the same lineage from which he had crafted shrimp, to serve as herd animals and grazers. Termed Caproshrimps, they would serve as one of the primary prey organisms in the terrestrial reefs. In addition to these exoskeletal grazers, a family of endoskeletal herding quadrupeds would help steady the base of the food chain. They would take their colorful bodies, scaled hides, and crushing beaks from the lessons Klaar had learned from the growth of tropical fish, so-called Shorecattle. Gifted with strong beaks and long, prehensile tongues, they could eat both the shelled fruits of the flora from their world or directly graze on the grass patches dotting the landscape. Alongside these terrestrial organisms were barnacle-fliers, partially protected, flying creatures that scrabbled across corals and could fly between them with ease. Kytes, ranging in all shapes and sizes, would join them in the air as ray-like predators snatching smaller animals from the shoreline.

Predators, of course, were soon to follow and a number of forms were considered. The magnificent Deep Drake would be the basis of the apex predator of these waterless reefs, Land Drakes taking on many of the qualities of their more aquatic ancestors while shedding those made unnecessary by a life spent primarily outside of deep waters. Bearfish, formed from the same lineage as Shorecattle, would serve as a healthy middle ground between the apex-predator and those below it, able to bring down smaller organisms with ease while simultaneously browsing on the flora available to itself. Finally, pack hunting Tidal Jackals would round out the food chain as scavengers and opportune hunters.

The array of life unleashed so readily by Klaar was staggering, even for himself. Nevertheless, such things did not call for babysteps. The coastal reefs would dot the shorelines of the continent wherever Klaar saw fit, breaking up beaches and coastal cliffs when adequate environs were available to be turned swiftly into reef. With this first of many done, planted just west of the Tree of Genesis, Klaar knew he could proliferate the environment across the coasts of the numerous continents and islands now being stolen from the deep by capricious gods. Though he had accepted that they should rightly have their own worlds, it would do well to remind them that he could retake what was once rightfully his.

Klaar wriggled with barely contained excitement; oh, what a lovely day.




In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Klaarungraxus


And so the oceans teemed.

All across the numerous waters of Galbar life blossomed below the waves, in its hundreds of thousands of variations. Seemingly endless schools of shimmering fish assaulted the senses as undersea tidal waves of color while huge basking animals surged through the waters, mouths agape. Deep below, in rocks and crags and crevasses, little things scuttled and nipped at one another. Even at the microscopic level life flourished, with organisms so small as to be near impossible to see except in their teeming masses filling the oceans from the surface all the way down to the deepest depths.

And so Klaar was pleased.

His meeting with the Maiden of the Moon had given the Old Growth Below a considerable sense of clarity, his awareness of the world vastly increased. The old forces of growth were not alone and nor were these separate entities definitively hostile. In fact, they could be downright congenial. Klaar had taken this knowledge well. Perhaps there were more of such quality about the face of Galbar, destined to splash into his oceans for choice meetings such as the one he had shared with Gibbou.

So it was that the mighty Klaar continued his passage through the oceans, spreading life in abundance. But even in this new paradise of life, Klaar deigned that something was missing. Life was simple, basic, and in balance; a good thing, to be sure, but lacking in any true depth. His works had been animalistic in nature, each life often wrought by the alien minds of his numerous tentacles rather than the overmind of Klaar himself. Few thoughts had gone into their creation and they were, although bountiful, of little consequence. As the surface blossomed into trees that towered into canopies so thick as to drain all light from above, Klaar felt the joint mind of his numerous nodes chime in for ever greater creations. How could this be an age of creation with such limited growth?

And so Klaar set to work once more, the many minds of his labyrinthine intelligence designing the creatures that would be his crowning achievements. Designs for numerous new creations spawned rapidly in the mindseye of Klaarungraxus and were stored away for eventual creation. To the casual observer, like the small krill that flitted its little limbs several hundred meters away from the Deep God’s mass, Klaar flitted his limbs and shrunk down on himself, eyes losing their luster as he lost himself in thought.

Days, weeks, potentially months passed as Klaar’s numerous subminds set about the business of designing, testing, and experimenting with the life Klaar envisioned being spawned into the world. Uncontent with the limitations his first iteration of creation had wrought, this next wave would raise the tidewaters of life. They would each be monumental, if not in size than in value to the ecosystems they would be thrust into. Each new species would serve as a pillar for the environments Klaar had full intention to make manifest on the face of Galbar.

The first of his works would be simple but vast in scope; an expansion, thought left-below-two-down, of a basic design already extant that could be expanded upon. With a little effort the exoskeletal life of Galbar’s oceans could be grown to macro-scale and made primary movers of their environs; Titanocrustacea, the Titan Crabs. Numerous forms of the family could be made ranging in sizes and shapes already present in crustacean life. From those more simple designs Klaar could, of course, return to the creatures at a later date and further expand upon the concept. Henceforth the seafloor would be dotted by moving islands, the numerous giant crustaceans that graze on the bountiful sea grasses of the Galbarian Oceans.
Sea Serpents would follow, the lithe pseudo-reptilians born from numerous strands of thought melded into one. They would be omnivorous by design, sporting dentition allowing for the consumption of all sea life available to them. Their long, thin bodies were the ideal shape for both rapid movements and survival in the numerous passageways found both in the cavernous depths of the ocean and the tunnel-like growth of corals now densely populating the oceans. At least half-a-dozen separate species of the Sea Serpent family had been devised, differentiated by color, appendages, and other qualities of superficial or behavioral note. All Sea Serpents, regardless of species, would benefit from electrosensory organs imbedded all across the dermis of the organism with varying capacity to release electrical charges to either detect or, in the most serious of cases, stun other organisms.

The Reef-Horses would be the next creation decided upon, a family of brightly colored and highly visually diverse organisms that could populate the great fields of multi-colored seagrasses that now swathed portions of the seabed in a taidai of color. Envisioned to be semi-amphibious, the Reef-Horse family would all share an at-least visually similar body structure with a quadrupedal gait. Their fins, spread across several phillanges, could be tightened to form pseudo-hooves for either grasping onto the seabed or when exiting the waters to explore the shorelines. All forms of sessile life, from seagrasses to molluscs and everything in between, would be prime sources of sustenance for the species and as such they would bare dentition adequate for the varied tasks of stripping fronds or cracking shells. An image played across the many-minds of Klaar, of a future where perhaps they could serve future creations; a passing fancy to consider another time.

The envisioned apex-predators of this new undersea explosion of life were the Deep Drakes; an array of reptilian-like predatory life built around traversing the craggy reefs and deep caverns of the sea, the Deep Drakes would be a marvel of organic creation. Four powerful limbs, able to spread into fins just as the Reef Horses, terminated in powerful clawed appendages capable of digging into even rock to keep purchase in strong tides. Bioluminescent growths could be used to communicate with other Deep Drakes, attract prey, or ward off rivals in the darkness of the depths while their scaly hide and pseudo-lungs allowed for extended periods of time spent above water. Above the waves, extended fins could be used for leaping glides and threat displays. To challenge all forms of life beneath the waves, their jaws could produce bite forces capable of shattering bone like twigs and barbed tails could be used to lash at prey or foe alike.

With all those varied creatures in mind, it seemed odd what Klaar’s overmind focussed on most. At the center of his roiling thoughts was a creature born of his own image, an entity that would be his own visage made manifest. Though he had no interest in creating a species in replication of his own personality and behavior, he had to admit that his primary form was ideal for the world he resided in. Although they would be slightly derivative, what harm could there be in a creation such as he?

As envisioned in the minds-eye of the Old Growth Below, these creatures would be reminiscent of his own enviable form. Each would bare twelve limbs, arranged symmetrically along a vertical axis. The bottom eight would serve as primary means of locomotion, either through swimming or through pulling themselves through an enclosed environment, with the top two pairs serving as manipulators for more delicate interactions with objects. From there Klaar would bless their species with extraordinary strength, tossing aside any notions of skeletal structure in favor of a far more functional model. Muscular sacs would serve as primary points of structure, with the ability to fill up with or expel gasses for buoyancy. Despite their considerable size, the power of their limbs would allow them to move through the water with dreadful speed and the lack of bones would make them as agile as possible given their girthy shape.

Again he lavished upon this idealized mortal form with further gifts. Their senses, particularly their sight and hearing, would be greatly increased. Six eyes would provide for near three hundred and sixty degrees of rotational vision and an array of light spectrums would be made visible, turning the dark depths of the sea into their own, colorful haven. Sounds from miles away underwater, bounced from surface to surface, would be at least somewhat traceable and provide ample heading for predations. Even their senses of smell and touch would be increased as well, though in less radical ways. Their brain, large yet amorphous, would even be strengthened with a spread of neural connections spread across their tentacles just as his own mind was subdivided and decentralized so that each limb would have a deadly mind of its own.

With all their gifts, Klaar realized he had failed in several regards. They were cold-blooded, like all of his creations beneath the waves, and that meant they would be slave to the temperatures of the sea. Sluggishness in cold waters, slowed metabolisms, and the need to fuel their size would be a problem. A level of biological immortality had been implanted into their flesh, leading to a species that should by all rights simply grow past death and be immune to the fickle ministrations of time. With this ever growing size, no matter how slow the rate, the species would require considerable amounts of nutrients to support itself and would necessitate solitude among the species. Though he had made magnificent predators and destroyers, Klaar was made frustratingly aware that these creatures could never create in the ways he did.

As the final thoughts of creation spilled from Klaar’s mind on the life he had dreamt into reality, Klaar felt a resounding sense of pride and an overwhelming wash of disappointment all at once. There was an awareness of how limited these unnamed creatures would be despite the effort and imagination he had poured into them. It seemed, despite his own magnificence, that these would be but pale imitations of the true thing.

”I name thee Vrool, little mirrors mine. May thine being disappoint no longer.”




In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Klaarungraxus


The seas roiled and shook in great, heaving waves from the Ocean God’s work.

The time it had taken had been lost on the dread mind of Klaarungraxus, lost to the wiles of his effort at expanding the oceans in all directions he could. The sun, though baleful and glaring, had its stung lessened by Klaar’s vast growth. Though it would never please him to look upon that terrible orb Klaar had learned to tolerate its presence and praise its absence. So it was that the great, tentacled God of far reaching limbs and deep seated thoughts set to work under the light of both the sun and the moon. It seemed in that harsh time of Galbar’s birth and upbringing that the world shook all over, from sources numerous and awful in scope.

There was no doubt about it; the Boar, the Tree, and the Sea were at their work.

Soon enough Klaar’s work had come to an acceptable conclusion. Galbar was no longer an unhealthy shade of brown but a blue orb, splotched with brown and the ever growing green. The oceans were deep, carved by Klaar’s own tentacles. Though the Boar had claimed land for itself, Klaar couldn’t spite the creature. Even if Boris had spat insults at Klaar during their first meeting, the Old Growth Below had little interest in pursuing such a rivalry. He had watched with considerable fascination at the lapping of his waters at the edge of those great rocks heaved from the soil by the Boar and he knew in the end the waters would win. Every day the rock of the world was ground down a little more, micrometers of grains pulled free. A pleasing thought, indeed.

Klaar swam through the bubbling waters of his home freely, travelling between the zones of that watery world with contentment filling his numerous hearts. It was just as he had remembered, so long ago, when his pool seemed as expansive as the oceans were now. Truly a blissful experience. But despite the spacious tentacle room, something simply wasn’t right.

”It is empty.”

The words Klaar spoke pushed waves outwards from above and crushed rock below. They were not words as men would speak them in some far and distant future but words formed from the very sounds of the natural world. His body wriggled at the thought as the vastness of his form intoned its first words of Deepspeak, the Holy Vonu. Despite this joyous occasion, sounds of bubbles and gentle white waters and soothing tides, Klaar could not shake the idea.

”It is empty!”

The gears of that vast, unintelligible mind turned and twisted on one another like some great and poorly made clock. Calculations were made in nanoseconds by tentacle-minds, sent to the overmind at the center of it all to consume, digest, and put into works. How could Klaarungraxus, god of so many long and unpronounceable names, allow such a travesty to continue? It was simple; he could not.

The huge shadow cast by the second largest living thing on Galbar flowed across the waters and darkened entire seas with its passing. Bereft of such limitations as his pool had once given him, Klaar had grown to proportions that rivaled islands and matched the growth above the world in mass if not sheer size. His eyes, passing above the surface between huge strokes of his tentacles, eyed the growth above with immense adoration.

”Bountiful color is needed.”

At the echoing of his tonal proclamation, Klaar’s thick hide darkened and grew bountiful. In a burst of color the waters adjacent to the tropical realm grown by the Tree of Genesis changed in color. No longer did they share the dark blue of the seas but instead a gradient spread out turning the seas of a beautiful, deep cyan. It was not quite green, but Klaar assured himself that the Tree, so high above, saw his efforts and appreciated them. Despite this, Klaar’s tentacles shuddered in disagreement. It was true, the Tree of Genesis would most certainly appreciate the work they had done. Nevertheless, this was simply not what the oceans needed.

Klaar ruminated as he dove.

A great shelf jutted out before dropping off into the depths below. It was not noticeably vast, no more so than any other piece of undersea terrain that Klaar had built in his near mindless efforts to expand the sea. In fact, it was potentially one of the more bland and visually unappealing places. A simple thrust of rock, flat, that hung not far from the surface off the southern coast of the new continent. It was so close that, if the sun were just right, the shadow of the Tree of Genesis would cover the little shelf. It was perfect for his designs.

The substantial girth of Klaar half settled on the edge of the platform, dwarfing it with his size even with half of that most corpulent of masses hanging off the edge into the deep below. What amounted to a head, the top of his bell, leaned in with intense focus as all six eyes focused on a single point. With the precision of a surgeon belied by the size of his limbs, Klaar lowered the tip of one tentacle to the seafloor and then lifted upwards ever so gently. Growing from the point of contact up a total of four centimeters, the first life in the ocean was born. It was magnificent, it was glorious, it was without equal!

It was a single blade of seagrass.

All across the world the waves crashing against the continents grew large but crashed softly. This joyous occasion was worthy of celebration and song and the great Old Growth of the Deep trumpeted his successes with exuberant fanfare from his tentacles! Huge, monstrously sized tidal waves rose like mountains before crashing like gentle breezes, little more than white water that did nothing more than gently kiss the continent’s edge. Now was a time for bountiful creation!

Klaar’s tentacles dragged across the rock surfaces of the seafloor around him, leaving jungles of seagrass in their wake. Soon more tentacles set to work with minds of their own, spawning life of new and ever increasing complexity. Seagrasses changed colors followed by lichens to cover stones. Seaweeds followed, of all shapes and sizes, and soon the depths became a canvas of colors matched only by the Old Growth Above. Greatest of all these sessile creations, beloved in the hearts of many tentacles, was the corals placed by front-right-second-down. They grew slowly and purposefully but blossomed uniquely, no two alike and each more colorful than the last. Klaar would see to it that their homes abounded, that he promised each and every polyp with words of kind-hearted tides and docile foam.

From that first place of deep growth Klaar spread forth in all directions. Though it began with simple life, sessile and bound to the ocean floor, soon his numerous tentacles imagined far more fascinating and interesting forms of life. The sprawling forests and jungles and reefs of deep sea flora were soon joined by the smallest of life forms, plankton of uncountable forms. Tiny crustaceans joined them, flitting about the growing world born of the vast god they paid homage to. From all the annihilation of the surface of Galbar, the flooding of its surfaces, life could now be born. The seas would brim with the creations of Klaar, an abundance of beings as tiny or ponderous as Klaar saw fit. The limit of Klaar’s creativity was the reach of his tentacles, and they seemed endless indeed. As Klaar grew the world below the waves in all ways possible, one thought stoked the engines of his passionate hearts.

”Life must teem.”




In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay


It wriggled.

It had wriggled often. It was, in fact, one of its most common and favorite pastimes. Though the pool of its birth was small it had been more than enough for the little godling. And so the small, tentacled creature wriggled. For uncountable amounts of time it had done so, swimming about in the pool-that-was-not-water, lost in itself. There was an emptiness in that pool but, as small as it was, the creature seemed enough to fill it. It had, of course, enjoyed more spacious accommodations when it had first formed; as time went on, the pool shrank and the thing grew.

Now the pool was not enough to swim in, a small puddle compared to the growing form that resided in it. To its glowing eyes the pool sang with color, bright and pleasing to behold; somewhere in its developing mind the creature recognized that it was, itself, of the pool’s making. It had been spawned by the pool, for the pool, to reside in the pool. A contemplative thought that the small tentacled godling had struggled with in its comparative youth but became an ever more thought on subject as it aged. Now, as it dwarfed the pool and its numerous eyes peered out across the endless flatness of the realm around the place of its birth, the creature ruminated.

It, as the growing godling had come to realize, was Klaarungraxus.

It had learned this particular detail when it heard the noises of stone being pushed aside by its growth at the bottom of the pool, displacing the liquid in great movements that sent bubbles roiling to the surface, all tied together by the grinding of tentacles through rock. Those noises, of flesh growing to make room for itself, tentacles pushing aside stone, the destruction of it all roiling the water; that was its identity. Klaarungraxus was that destruction and that creation and so it was a most acceptable name. The words, though they only just could be considered such, had come to the creature easily; they were the natural sounds of the world, it seemed, and it was as natural to the world as the world was to it.

The world was empty.

Klaar had figured that out as soon as it had grown beyond the confines of its pool. The first waters and the respectively small divot that contained them were dreadfully lonely in the world when it came to scenery. Klaar did not particularly mind early on, the world itself more than enough for his six eyes to devour. But, as his perception of time began to slow to a crawl (or possibly accelerate to a sprint) Klaar had quickly lost his original sense of majesty when it came to the empty, barren, and frustratingly flat expanse of the world around him. Nevertheless, his pool needed constant attention and the ocean-god-to-be was not going to shirk his duties of maintaining it.

Then the damned thing in the sky happened.

Klaar had admitted to himself fairly early on that this was a misnomer; there were in fact two of the glowering things up there. Despite the immense power available at its tentacle-tips, Klaar had never once considered the validity of such creation; the pool and its slow, generous growth to better contain his girth had served as acceptable distraction. But here there were things at work, perhaps in many ways like himself, and oh what they wrought was infuriating and fascinating in equal measure. The two orbs hung above Klaar’s vastness, threatening him with their flight. Would they remain up there, worried Klaar? Were they simply to come crashing down, to disturb his pool he had become so fond of? And then one of the bloody things GLOWED.

Not a gentle glow, as Klaar had noticed from his eyes or the lovely lines that creased his form or from his pool, so beautiful and grand. No, the damn thing shone brighter than anything Klaar had ever experienced or ever desired to. The gross incandescence of that ostentatious icon stung Klaar to his very core. In desperation he retracted in on himself, attempting to hide beneath the gentle cool of his waters. Even with all his efforts, the pool only raised up to cover one of his eyes. It simply wasn’t deep enough!

Klaar began to dig. Huge, powerful tentacles pushed and dragged and ground out the stone of the world into sand, fine and coarse and of many colors. Great rents were torn out of the worlds surface, tossed aside or smashed into pebbles before being dashed in all directions. The waters of Klaar’s pool grew and with every passing moment in time became deeper but lost a bit of their light. They dulled as they deepened, becoming ever darker as the energies from which they were poured were spread ever more thinly. Nevertheless, each time Klaar looked back upwards towards the sky that had once been so palatable all he could see was that hideous, burning effigy.

And so, he kept digging.

The time that passed was lost onto Klaar for his attentions were specific and his mood dire; he had no thoughts to waste upon the numerous things that abounded in that small stretch of time. When at last the furor of his escape had ran from his mind the depths of the sea had been carved. Klaar’s pool was no more, the first waters had been spread far and wide. In his depths Klaar was beyond the gaze of that cruel eye blazing in the sky. Yet, in his efforts to make good his escape the creature that was once small had grown to enormous proportions. The sea he hid beneath, though deep, felt cramped and claustrophobic.

But, the thought passed across the alien mind of the thing that was Klaar; there was so much more room above.

Dreadful gears turned in that sentience, calculations and figures generated by a most vast of consciousnesses. Klaar pondered on the world that could be and how deep and wide he could make it. There was blessed space and plenty of it that still sat beneath his mortal foe, baking under that infernal glower. What if Klaar so wished to stretch his limbs, to explore the pool as he had done when he was small? Surely these new confines were unacceptably dull. A sense had come to Klaar of entities of vast power, growing and forming no doubt as he had. Eyes rolled and twisted in their sockets as tentacles wandered, stretching and growing with minds all their own. Space was needed and space Klaar would have. With that the work began again.

Thus would the oceans be wrought, with one tentacle at a time.




In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay

In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
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In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Interest Checks

In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. III. Finished in Record Time™! → 5 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Clan of the Ashen Sun


The mountainous pillar of flame and coal-black skin brooded upon its chipped throne of basaltic stone. Gunderic, Clan Chief of the Ashen Sun, glared with surly visage at the distant wall across from him. His hall, if it could be called as such, sat as empty as it had on the day of its making. Hacked away by hand by the strongest of his hird, Gunderic had been just as irascible during that auspicious event. It had been promised to be the start of something new, a grand beginning in the armies of Satravius.

A bold faced lie.

Gunderic grumbled, his tone rolling with rocks and billowing lava. Ferocity tore at the ends of his frayed patience and powerful fingers drove cracks into the dense stone of his pointless chair. A throne fit for a failure scoffed Gunderic, standing with disgust as he did so often as of late. Unwilling to stand in the presence of that most insulting edifice of his own pathetic ambitions, Gunderic marched out of his hall with pounding gait carrying him swiftly through the yawning portal that served as entranceway.

The light of the sun was dimmed yet still bit at Gunderic’s eyes; he had long remained in the hall and the low light of that sullen place left little to be desired of the baleful gaze from above. Blinking away the shimmering spears, Gunderic looked upon his “people”. Jotundar of all shapes and sizes went about what little business they had in the crumbling ruins of what was to be one of the many fortresses of Satravius’ domain. Now it was a pitiful ruin replete with shattered walls and decrepit huts. For the most part his Clan simply lay beneath the stars, so clearly useless were the buildings that dotted the area.

This was the third time in nearly two decades that his Clan had returned to the spot. Such environs, though thoroughly healthful for a Jotundar, did not possess the adequate resources to support the clan. Instead the Clan wandered, claiming livestock from the numerous animals that made pasture in the mineral rich soil around the volcanic plains of the Cauldron. They served well enough to satiate the Clan’s hunger and the river to the North would quench their thirst whenever that spectre reared its ugly head.

Vile stuff, water, thought Gunderic, teeth grinding at the mere consideration of that most revolting of drinks. Nevertheless, Satravius had seen fit to torture His creations with a need for that most poisonous of liquids. Why he ever thought to burden them with it as a necessity, Gunderic could never guess. A cruel joke, perhaps, by a cruel master.

Gunderic’s thoughts seemingly never ceased their hateful rhetoric in most recent decades. He had found in his old age that he knew nothing but disdain for the life he lived. Oh, in his youth he had felt the rush of excitement as all his kind had; who wouldn’t, being told the world was yours for the taking in service to a God!

“Bah!”

The shout, fueled by bitter sentiments held long in the heart of the Chief, carried across the open landscape and bounced from jagged rocks and broken walls to echo imperiously for miles. The assembled members of the Clan turned to observe the source of the noise, all eyes on the Chief who simple stared back, slightly taken aback by his own outburst. His visage tightened, all pretense of embarrassment fleeing from his features, and with one wave of his hand Gunderic dismissed their attention from himself and they villagers swiftly returned to their work.

Gunderic knew well that they were familiar with outbursts from him. Though he was trusted without question by the Clan, particularly for his role in keeping them together and protected from the foul influences of all manner of entities, their expectations of him had certainly waned. He had become something of a museum piece, one to be respected and admired but little more. How he yearned to be worth their true admiration, honored for actions now rather than deeds long past.

The flaming giant frowned and kept on his solemn march, pounding right out of the now collapsed gate and into the richly grassed fields dotted green and black. Some grazing animals were visible in the distance, good eating as Gunderic remembered, and the thought of filling his belly with their well cooked haunches gave the Chief at least a passing sense of fulfillment. Perhaps he’d have to hunt them later. As he thought of hunting his mind’s eye travelled to the distant members of his Clan. There were always several bands in motion of the Ashen Sun, travelling in their roughly marked territory. Ogham stones, crudely hacked from volcanic rock, stood as markers for Ashen Sun lands and all other Jotundar knew it.

Occasionally, of course, other Clans got funny ideas. Just last season, Gunderic reminded himself, the Clan had a clash with a band of Jotundar men wandering about within their territory. The killing had been a fine respite from the usual boredom and their things made a nice addition to the Clan’s collection but their presence had warned Gunderic of dangers greater than rival Clans. According to several of the survivors who were taken as thralls, a vast city had cropped up to the South East. Tall and magnificently ugly creatures now resided there, described as smooth featured and practically glowing as the lights in the sky.

Gunderic shuddered at the remembrance of their description; smooth of features, symmetrical, shapely forms? Disgusting . . .

Nebulites, so they had been called. Slavers and hedonists by all accounts. Not that slaving and hedonism particularly wrankled Gunderic’s sentimentality, he admittedly, but it had been made completely clear that it was his fellow Jotundar that they oft enslaved. The rage he had felt at that particular gem of knowledge had shattered his favorite maul. Memories of Satravius’ promises of glory and conquest, both dashed aside and turned on their head by pretty, flying children! The insult was grave indeed. Worst of all, when they had their way with Jotundar their wretched spawn evidently were born flawed, never to grow larger than a child and with all the weaknesses no doubt carried by that vile race.

The dangers posed by these Nebulites would have to be considered more gravely, that much was for certain. The last months had been occupied by spiteful memories and disdainful thoughts but Gunderic knew well he could not keep to those fantasies for long. Tightening his belt as he often did, Gunderic nodded and ground his heavy teeth together in ascent. When next the Clan was whole Gunderic would raise the issue to the hird and something would be decided.

The old giant smirked ominously at the thought.


In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. III. Finished in Record Time™! → 5 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The Valla


Bells clanged away, seventy seven times in a row, to mark the end of the Month of Mourning. An entire month of ash had been observed for the departure of the demigod Roog from the lands of the Valla, the loss felt deeply all across the Valla homeland. As the Month of Ash and Mourning was finally declared over by the sonorous wail of bells at Yn-’e-Kynweir-Alwyld, the Valla world came to a standstill.

Periods of observation and reflection on the teachings of Roog were now filled with empty gaps of time, voids where once learning had resided. The blow to the Valla on a spiritual level was considerable, stabbing deep into the hearts of the Cenekyn monks and the tribes of Valla that spread out across the mountains and valleys surrounding the monastery. Despite this, life had to continue; food had to be gathered, labors completed, and rites observed. Though the loss of one’s God was a considerable one indeed, time paid little heed to such spiritual sacrifices.

As it were, the Valla world was in desperate need of change. A reliance on the presence of Roog had become essential to the workings of the Valla, particularly among the Cenekyn and residents of Kynweir-Alwyld. This need for guidance from a heavenly figure had to be dispensed with if society was to continue onwards. Emla knew this fact with ice cold certainty as she stood at the edge of Roog’s Rise beneath the Reodweir, staring out across the monastery’s tiled roofs and walkways.

“I feel his loss,” came the voice of her soulmate, her other half named Aesc, “I am empty.”

Aesc had been one of many Valla who had dulled with the loss of their deity more than most. In Roog’s presence Aesc had been one of the most vivid members of the order, constantly alert and craving the endless knowledge Roog seemed to provide. He had devoured their martial training from the very earliest steps and had taken to Roog’s new teachings of effort and labor with a tenacity unmatched by the others of the Cenekyn. Yet, with Roog’s passing from their world, that light faded.

Emla bit back her tongue as she felt the biting flame of ire press at the back of her throat. She had loved Roog more than anyone and had been a close confidant of the Wolf God since they first journeyed north from the place of their creation. Nevertheless, Roog had stressed in his teachings the skills of self-actualization and independence; if he had intended to remain forever, surely he would not have needed to teach them the skills he had? To see so many of her brethren fall to the moroseness of depression was almost sickening to her sensibilities. Fiery disdain flashed in her chest and she turned, gaze flashing across down-trodden looks of numerous collected Cenekyn, the full gamut of all the Order returned to the monastery during the Month of Mourning.

“By Roog’s Black Blood, how he would balk as your sadness,” spit Emla, addressing the crowd. Their faces seemed to contort in shame at her spiteful remark, their newly hued skin seemingly matching their sorrowful indifference effortlessly, “We are Chosen yet you mope at the loss of our creator like lost children. Did Roog so whine at the loss of His creator? The Month of Mourning is gone and passed, now is the time to move on.”

Emla turned on her heels to look back out across the monastery and beyond, into the depths of the valleys below where numerous columns of smoke could be seen from hearths and campfires. How many Valla, she wondered, resided beneath the canopy of trees that spread out as a green blanket across the landscape. Many years had passed since their arrival and though as a Cenekyn time hardly ravaged her, it had churned ever onwards nevertheless. Families had been born, an entire new generation, the first true-born of the Valla race now growing into adulthood and having their own children. She could not abide allowing the works of Roog to fall into ruin out of mourning for him.

“I will lead the Cenekyn.”

There was a momentary shift in the wind as the collect monks all looked to Emla with a mix of surprise and confusion; the idea that anyone could lead the Cenekyn other than Roog was outlandish to say the least. After the paralyzation caused by the shock of such a statement died down, dissenting voices began to speak their peace.

“Why you, if anyone at all? What grants you such authority?”

Tension in the air flared as more voices spoke up, either in support for or in opposition to Emla’s proclamation. Emla remained silent as they spoke, her gaze dancing across the viridian world before her as memories of her first laying eyes upon it came to mind. As the debate began to calm, one opposing voice rose to meet her with the support of all the others.

“We cannot do this.”

Emla’s eyes widened with surprise as she recognized the voice of her beloved ringing against her ears. His voice warbled with emotions and as she turned to regard him she saw a mask of one thousand faces splayed across his own. Tears welled around his eyes as bronze irises stared deeply into Emla’s own. The air was electric as they stood, staring at one another, and the crowd of monks remained silent before the storm. Emla, suddenly feeling a knot in her own stomach, took up a fighting stance.

“I make challenge, here and now; let Roog’s teachings decide. A Trial by Effort.”

The summons rocked the collective of Cenekyn, truly shocked to see such a demand be set forth. There was certainly no precedent for such an act and to see the challenge laid between two lovers struck hard and sank deep into the hearts of the observers. She was right, of course; her interpretation was not without merit. A Trial by Effort between two individuals could not be more in line with the teachings of Roog and His Man-Father Kalmar. Aesc, the single greatest practitioner of Roog’s martial arts, took up a stance of his own.

The two followed one another in the beginnings of their dance, marking the circle with their feet as the Cenekyn nearest to them moved from their intended battlefield. Each held low stances, close to the ground with a readiness to act. The tenseness was palpable as with each new pass they tightened the circle, closing the distance inch by inch as they neared positions where they could strike out at their opponent. Emla, impetuous as always, launched the first strikes.

A forward kick with her front leg, driven forward by Emla’s back leg pushing off from the ground, struck into Aesc’s guard, catching him on the forearms before anchoring to the floor and allowing for a spinning kick toward’s Aesc’s unguarded side. Aesc rolled and put forward two hands, deflecting and redirecting Emla’s kick to the side before lashing out with an open palmed strike. Emla leaped forward, using the momentum of Aesc’s block to roll forward just outside of the range of his punch.

The duel continued as Aesc followed after Emla, the pair trading blows as their battle wandered across Roog’s rise. It was quite evident that Aesc, despite Emla’s own prodigious skill, was the superior fighter in the match. For every blow Emla gave, Aesc followed with a block and a counter attack, and Emla could only keep up as Aesc continued his assault. Where once there had been melancholy in his heart there now sat a deep seated fire, borne entirely on the back of the challenge Emla had made. As Aesc refused to break his advance Emla continued to dodge away, realizing her own mistake in entering the fight so readily. Awareness stung at the back of her mind, warning of her of her impending loss, while a small voice raged at such indignation.

As Emla dodged away from another one of Aesc’s ferocious blows, a fallen branch of the Reodweir caught her attention. She had always been a master of weaponry, outperforming her lover during bouts with spears. With one roll she closed the distance to the bough, snatching it up during her roll so that she rose with it in hand. With one easy motion she snapped the young growth from the end, the leafy, soft end of the branch falling to the ground while Emla bared her newfound weapon with a determined grin.

The clash continued with the fight now in Emla’s favor, her makeshift bo-staff striking from angles and with speeds Aesc couldn’t possibly match with hands and fists alone. Soon his full skills were pressed to the limit, every part of his body being turned to action to stave off Emla’s attacks and attempt to close the distance to get at her. One blow, then two, and finally a third went inside Aesc’s guard and began to strike closer and closer to parts of him that would loathe to be struck. One particular lash of the branch struck Aesc on the temple, sending stars into his eyes and rage into Aesc’s belly. With a tirade of fists, feet, knees and elbows Aesc put his lover on the defensive and one, decisive strike smashed the bough in two, shattering it, and striking Emla directly center chest.

Emla practically flew several feet, stumbling as she went, before falling on her back from the sheer force of the impact. Her weapon was shattered, its splinters now decorating the floor of Roog’s Rise, and her victory with it. Emla laid back on the stone tiles of the Rise, cursing herself for her failure, as Aesc loomed above imperiously. Then, all of a sudden, Emla heard laughter. Aesc was laughing. Not in the way that one does to taunt their foes, either, but with genuine mirth. Emla opened her eyes to see a hand reaching down to help her up.

“You have won, my dear, so rise.”

Emla stared at the hand with an eyebrow raised in spite, her ashen chest heaving with exertion and doubt. At long last she took the hand, being pulled to her feet by Aesc who stared into her eyes with that stupid, warm look she so enjoyed. Moments before she had been beating him with a branch, yet now he smiled blankly at her like nothing had happened. Emla growled out her confusion, seemingly matched by the confusion of the crowd.

“I have not won, idiot. You have bested me. We all saw it. The Trial of Effort goes to you.”

Aesc laughed again, heartily as if she had said a most raucous joke. Emla began to smart at the perceived insult, the grey features of her face tightening while her bronze eyes glared at her Lover-soon-to-not-be. He caressed her face only to have his hand swatted away, a smile beaming on his face even brighter for it.

“Explain!”

“Alright, my sun-and-stars, alright!” Aesc smiled and nodded, taking a moment to catch his breath from the laughter, “You won! We fought, I bested you, yet you won. Our fight was to determine whether or not Roog’s teachings would have us change or remain as we are; it is clear that change is the only way forward. My judgement was clouded by my sadness; Great-Wolf never once wished for us to be as we are, forever.”

Emla stared, annoyed, at Aesc but with his reasoning starting to make some sense to her. A Trial of Effort was not a duel to see who could defeat the other, for such a thing Roog would never abide. It was to put the two parties through struggle and to come out of the other side purified of thought. Though she didn’t like to admit that her defeat had won the day for her, she could at least take some pride in that small victory.

“Fine. I win. But what then?”

The Cenekyn fell amongst each other then in discussion, each monk seemingly having their own idea of what this meant for the future. At last voices were silenced by Aesc who, stepping away from Emla, had grabbed up the young portion of the branch that had been knocked away at the beginning of the fight. With little effort he snapped the branch in two and bent it into shape, forming two circlets before stepping back to his lover. He set the crown upon her head before placing his own on his.

“We both shall rule; one who looks forward, and one who looks back. Together we shall find a balance in all things. What say you, brothers and sisters?”

The murmur rose into voices of acceptance and agreement, the Rise suddenly alive with voices once more. It seemed this path fit well within Roog’s plan. Two rulers there would be of the Cenekyn, one who drives forward and the other who holds on to what was already learned. It would not be perfect, but it would do.

“What, then, shall we do?” came a voice from the crowd, one of the numerous Cenekyn speaking out for the many.

Aesc turned to Emla, smiling and giving her the floor. The woman clenched her teeth before turning over her shoulder to look out across the valleys and mountains of Roog’s domain. They would safeguard this place till his return for him, keeping to his teachings and protecting their people in his absence as he had always intended. That would, until the end of time, be the purpose of the Cenekyn.

“Great-Wolf, in his wisdom, told us to build our own homes. Then we shall do this. With the skills he imparted, I command that we shall erect more monasteries across our lands. Cenekyn will be sent to build these hallowed grounds by hand, as Roog did. From there we shall protect the people from whatever threats rise to greet them, and teach the skills Roog imparted onto us to our kind wherever they might reside. As with all life there must be an Epoch of Growth; so, let us go out and grow.”


In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. III. Finished in Record Time™! → 5 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The Kayuk


The beast twitched, eyes wide and manic as the slightest scent carried across the wind. It was a vast creature, to be sure, and its pounding hooves or goring tusks could each provide an ample end to a life. Panic slowly subsided, its shoulders slowly lowering and eyes beginning to calm. As it were, the creature didn’t have too much to worry about in the Great Hooflands. Finally finding some semblance of calm from its animalistic trepidation, the monstrous animal returned to gorging itself.

In the low brush far off to its rear, however, other creatures were on the prowl. A small tide of dull fur and ragged scales seemed to flow like water, bobbing and shaking with unnatural unlife. They moved with purpose and soon each lump of hide found its way to a hiding place, divots and foxholes in the ground that lowered them out of sight.

The air took on a quality all its own as the wind died down and a dread stillness settled in over the plain. The lone beast remained cautious, the loss of the wind removing all benefits its sense of smell provided. Nevertheless, only creatures of considerable size could possibly harm its sovereignty over these plains and those rare foes could be seen coming from miles around. A low whistling caught its temporary attention, the sound of some bird or scuttling animal, but was quickly dismissed as a non-threat.

The tide of death burst into life from the numerous warrens in which they hid. The whistling continued, roaring noise across the plains while the pounding of drums began. The monster rose, gaze washing across the plains around it only to be struck by sudden awareness of the danger. Many dozens of the corpse-beasts had surrounded it, closing in with boughs of trees gripped in their dead hands, and the pounding beat of some far off entity unknown to the creature slammed in its head, disorienting it. It turned roughly on its rear hooves, making to make good its escape only to be faced with more of the nightmares made real.

A howl, a rolling peal of thunder, erupted from the oncoming surge; the roar of things with death on their minds. The howling whine of the whistling changed tune, screeching in the ears of the sovereign turned prey while the beat of distant drums pounded against its mind. The world was suddenly noise, so much noise, and a dizzying array of corpses that charged in from every direction.

The first spear connected with its haunches, resulting in a rough kick from the beast that shattered wood but failed to connect with the distant thrower. More sharp bites, like many large insects scouring flesh, stabbed deep into the creature’s flesh. They were painful but did not drive deep, merely flesh wounds that served only to agitate the monster further. Enraged by this unknown horde of attackers and the maddening noises that followed on their heels, the great beast rose on its hind legs, bellowing out a challenge as spears peppered its hide.

In an instant six of the corpse-beasts charged in, eyeless sockets revealing nothing of their intention. Their charge revealed a ram of considerable length held tightly between them, their momentum carrying the spike forward. Their monstrous prey, having revealed its underbelly to them in its foolish sense of invincibility and maddened state of thought, seemed to recoil as the realization dawned on it. With one last, glorious roar the tide of death drove the massive spear deep beneath the ribs of the beast and upwards, spearing liver, lung, and heart with their gruesome weapon. The spear was dropped and the killers fled, allowing the beast its death throes. Its eyes closed, those of the King of the plains, and its venerable life ended at the hands of the dead.

The camp was abuzz with excitement and activity even as the blood of the great beast, so named Ilokhwe, poured into the earth. As the mother’s camp set down roots all around the corpse of the slain prey, a celebration had picked up. Music rang all across the band, bellowed songs, banging drums, and howling of spin-whistles. Laughter and praise for a hunt well done accompanied the wall of noise that surrounded the camp as its deafening aura.

Amaruq stood passively, watching the mothers and their pups set about butchering the carcass. The vast creature the hunters had slain would feed the band for months if properly prepared and cured and its numerous gifts would service the band’s many other needs for far longer. It was a much needed success for the hunters who had failed in three hunts prior. The band had taken a dangerous risk coming inland from the coast, effectively waylaying their continued journey, but needs justified such actions. Nevertheless, it had come dangerously close.

Amaruq thanked the spirits for their generosity, sparing the band any more injuries; nearly half a dozen had been injured in the previous three hunts and one of those poor souls had been unfortunate enough to not recover from his injuries. His grave was marked with a rounded headstone, smoothed by the waves back on the coast, and had been left as so many others had been on this long path.

The beast-hide weighed heavily on Amaruq then and the Selka removed it from his back, taking a moment to stare into the eyeless sockets of the corpse-beast. This was his armor, his regalia in times of violence and death, and when he donned it he felt transformed. He was no longer just Amaruq when wearing the hide but was, instead, some amalgam of himself and the very beast that lost its life to give him its skin. Though he wore it with pride during the hunt, the thoughts that filled him with its donning shamed him deeply.

“Amaruq, Shoulderman,” came a call to him, the hunched form of some other long dead beast being pulled away to reveal a young hunter freshly blooded.

Amaruq smiled at the young one, his whiskers still soft on his face and undrooped from age and hardship. A single scar graced his gentle features, one of many more to come if he lived a full life. Amaruq thought to his own time at that age, when he had been graced with a different name and a different life. Long distant, now, here on the plains.

“Yes, hunter? What are your needs.”

There was a small gathering of hunters behind him, each having pulled back their dread visages to reveal their youthful forms. Each had been fresh hunters during this season, desperate for a chance to prove themselves for their band. The first three failures had proved particularly crushing to their spirits and it was clear by their expressions they were elated to have finally found success. Each grasped spears in tight fists and sported smiles and wild eyes revealing their true thoughts, the thoughts of those who first melded with their hides and felt the beasts within.

“We wished to have their heart, Chieftain. After its strings are cut, of course. We would feast on it together, as brothers.”

Amaruq held back a smile, refusing to give in so easily. He himself remembered those feelings of need when his band had made their first kill, so eager to dig in to the power of that beast they had helped in slaying. It would not do to simply hand them such a prize, of course, for a heart had power equaled only by the liver and the brain. Although all parts of a kill were valued, these three carried the most power from the beast-that-was.

“I do not know,” teased Amaruq, smile hidden well behind a veil of stern disapproval, “for it was not thee who made the decisive blow. And I believe I saw some of you at the back, edging towards the beast during the Roar . . .”

The crowd turned on themselves rapidly, accusing looks and silent judgement reigning supreme; each had known themselves to be at the forefront of that deadly melee but had not taken time to look for their brethren. Was it possible, they were no doubt all thinking, that one of their comrades had proven weak and cowardly when at last the hunt had come to blows? The young boy before him seemed to almost be at the edge, a flurry of emotions ranging from anger to utter disappointment marring his visage. One smile from Amaruq dispelled it all.

“Calm, young hunters, calm; I only jest. You did well today; tell the Mothers that I give the heart to you as gift. However, you must string it yourselves; any meat left over may be yours to eat. Feast well, for you are men now.”

The gaggle of youngling hunters now “men” cheered and charged off to the corpse, surrounding it like mayflies all goggling and pointing at the open wound where the heart lay. Amaruq smiled before turning off and away, walking the not-inconsiderable distance to the hill to the camp’s east.

The hill was one of the very few of its lonesome kind out on these parts of the plains but it provided a unique perspective difficult to find elsewhere. From it one could look out to the horizon and see the blessed blue of the ocean. Amaruq, third to bare the name, had nearly hesitated when he gave the call to travel inland. Nevertheless, it had been the right call. His band had been one of several to travel inland, with the rest of the tribe hugging the coast waiting for success of the hunting bands. The Kayuk had been spread wide across this stretch of shore for some time as they travelled north, the elders and shouldermen of the bands all cautioning against travelling as one large group. The venerable Amaruq, second to bare the name, had directed the tribe to be willing to split when needed and her advice had been heeded ever since. Now, with her body returned to the waves, the new Amaruq was faced with the dangers posed by her command.

He was Chieftain and Wise Shoulderman, heir to the lineage of Amaruq the Wise and leader of the tribe. He had been gifted that authority by right of birth, selected from among his grandmother’s offspring to take over in her stead. Youth was valued over age among Chieftains, for they had the longest to learn and rule; Amaruq the Wise had dictated that many rulers over few years was foolish indeed. Amaruq’s decision at the Meeting to split the tribe once more following in his grandmother’s footsteps was met with approval, his leadership viewed as a steady hand in line with the two Amaruq’s that came before him.

Disturbing rumors had travelled from the Northern bands, however, and Amaruq couldn’t help but thank the spirits for this successful hunt for more than one reason alone. With this hunt complete he could begin his band’s journey to the Meeting, reforging the Kayuk as whole once more. Runners from the many bands had been coming and going for weeks now from the Mother’s Camp, deciding what to do about this newest horror. An entire band had been destroyed, it was said, by beasts of jet black and pure malice spawned from the roiling seas. A path of blackness had surged across the spar of land before them, leaving devastation in their wake. Something would have to be done about this new threat, the decision to be made at the Meeting by the Elders and Amaruq.

Worry dissipated as a gentle hand touched Amaruq’s shoulder, easily recognized from years of experience. Amaruq turned and pulled his wife into a loving embrace, hugging the young Selka against himself. Tanaraq, who had been his wife since his own ascension to Amaruq, simply smiled and leaned into the moment for some time.

“Killik,” she finally spoke, using his first name in private as only her and their offspring could, “I am so happy you are safe. I worry for your safety now that I cannot join you on the hunt.”

Amaruq returned the smile before pressing his soft nose to her forehead, sharing in that single moment of closeness before responding to his wife.

“Do not worry, Tanaraq, I am in no danger. I have many young hunters who could slay even the great lizards; I know, for they have told me so.”

Tanaraq gave Amaruq a pleasing giggle, a noise Killik-who-was-Amaruq had become addicted to as he aged. The love of his life, to be sure. Even now her belly was swollen with what would be their first child and the thought of bringing new life into the world with her brought Amaruq considerable pride and joy. The sort of pride and joy that one felt mandated to protect against even the greatest dangers the world posed. His brows furrowed and the husband-now-Chieftain turned his head, gazing out across the waters.

“What waves roil in your mind, husband?”

“I fear the worst; more tales of dark things farther north. I worry; was Amaruq the Wise wrong to send us this way? Was my Grandmother foolish for continuing in his steps? Am I a fool, endangering what I love with this foolish journey?”

“Of course not, my love; you do what you can, that is all we can ask for.”

“Perhaps, my wife, but I fear they will ask more from me than simply what I can do; the Meeting is days away and they will demand much of me.”

“I know in you is all they could possibly ever need, my husband; of this I have no doubt.”

Amaruq nodded and placed his chin on the top of his wife’s head, looking out behind her back at the Mother’s Camp and the throng of warriors who were but minnows to his eyes. They were but few of many who were chiefly under his care and he couldn’t bare to see his people suffer so. Nevertheless, the Meeting was coming and the Chieftain Amaruq was needed far more than the man Killik. He steadied himself, determining to hold fast against the waves of their need, and would provide ample anchorage for their worries and woes to be dashed across.

The Shoulderman-who-was-Amaruq stared into the flames as they began to die down, drums pounding in his ears to the tune of the flames. Black wings and shadows roared in those fiery depths the spirits revealed in the shoulder bones of the many sacrifices brought before him. Livers had been spilled, auguries performed, and intestines tossed for readings for over an hour now. Amaruq in the guise of the Shoulderman was surrounded by his brethren, each Shoulderman a reflection of the others in their ceremonial masks and decorative hides. They were a surly band, prone to fits of bellowing and shouting and rampant dances. A strange lot, to be sure, but a throng the Tribe had to respect during these trying times.

At last the Shouldermen retired to their huts, for the elders they controlled to be released back into the world as themselves. As masks were pulled free the men and women who wore the bodies of the Shouldermen breathed sighs of relief, free from the power those clever spirits held over them once more. Amaruq was the last to remove his mask, the same powerful artifact every Amaruq had worn since the very first. There was a murmur of ascent to his freedom, thanking the spirits they let him return to control his body once more, before the group circled to discuss their visions.

“The endless black lies before us,” came one Elder’s voice, followed by agreements from several others, “Some great devastation has befouled the land to our north. The hunting band of Akna has fallen, slain to all but one runner. He told us of a vast tide of evil spirits that flowed across the land as a tidal wave. We are assured by the visions that the Spirits have no power against them.”

There was a momentary debate then, discussing the likelihood of the spirits intervening on their behalf if even they feared these creatures. As the elders spoke Amaruq retreated into himself, considering the nature of his vision. Black wings, feathered and fiery, across red water. Dark waves, crushing depths, and a vast danger that would devour this continent. The final portion of his vision haunted him most, of dagger in back and Selka slaying Selka. He pondered on the vision as the Elders continued to debate.

“Perhaps we should head south? Find a way around? Perhaps we have passed the place Amaruq the Wise had seen in his vision?”

More debate, heated and defiant; the idea that Amaruq the Wise had sent them on this journey incorrectly was particularly distasteful and so clothed in the thoughts of their own failure, the Elders discussed returning south. Amaruq grimaced at the idea, his own visions confirming that such an action would be disastrous. As their arguments reached intensity that threatened to spill out of the tent by sheer volume, Amaruq intervened.

“We cannot go south, brothers and sisters, for there is a danger hidden there greater than even this blackness presented before us. I see Selka slaying Selka and from this we would never recover. Hardship will strengthen us but such betrayal would destroy us. We must travel north.”

“North?! But to the North lies doom!”

Amaruq shook his head, baring his teeth in a display of disagreement. “No, to the North has passed doom; the tides always move, never settles. If the destroyers have left destruction in their wake, it is because they must keep moving. They cannot feed on nothing the same as us. We must travel past them, through the seas.”

“But our runners have told us the land ends and there is only sea above. What would you have us do? Swim out into open ocean?”

“Our home is to the North, this much I know; Amaruq the Wise and Amaruq the Guide both knew this and set us on this path for a reason. Trust in the spirits, for they will guide us. Our passage will be directed by black wings.”


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