Post by oddayintheglutton on Nov 8, 2009 20:16:46 GMT -5
Name: Oddayin
Age: ??
Aliases: The Glutton, The Savage, the Devourer of Man. The Ghoul
Race: Pseudo-human.
Origin: Myriador (Baltimore Wargaming Club, then Darkon)
History:
It was the sound of waves that brought him too. The endless crashing against a rough shore and the strong tang of salt in his nostrils brought a ragged cough to his lips.
He was alive.
Still alive.
But there wasn’t much he knew, other than that.
His arms were weak and tired, had he been swimming? Fighting? He couldn’t recall. He couldn’t recall pretty much anything other than that he was parched, and ravenously hungry. Pushing himself to his knees was almost like waging a war all in itself … he almost regretted doing it. He took stock of himself, finding himself barren of almost all his clothing he suddenly felt the cool fall breeze sting his exposed flesh.
‘Move’ something in him said. Some primal desire to survive perhaps.
He stood.
He Fell.
He stood again, and took a step… and then another. It was easier , after that, to move along. But it wasn’t long before a voice shook him from his daze.
“Gee Mister…. You ok?” his eyes raised to see an older man. Maybe in his 60s with a long pole over his shoulder, grizzled beard and stooped back. The stranger shook his head, unsure, and rubbed his eyes and looked to the old man again.
“…. Thirsty.” Was all he could choke out. The old man simply nodded and fumbled with a skin slung over his shoulder. He handed it to the stranger in short order. He drank of the vile win in the skin as eagerly as a piglet suckling a tit. It was nearly half empty before he capped it and handed it back.
“If you washed up on these rocks from a ship wreck, the stars must be with you to not be smashed on rocks…. All my years I have seen many bodies of people, but not one alive.” The older man shook his head in disbelief, “Come with me stranger, I live up and yonder by the wood line, we’ll gets some clothes and food in ya.” The stranger could only nod. He didn’t know how now that he stopped how he would ever start moving again. But he managed and in less than a quarter of a dial, he was sitting in a wooden chair near a growing fire. The old man stood near the fire, ladling out some seafood stew from a large black cauldron over the fire into a set of stout wooden bowls. “Tis’ not fancy. Since my wife passed away I have to make due with what I can. Still, put some meat on those bones of yours, dilute that salt you been drinking I hope. … I’m Oddayin, by the way. What do they call you stranger?”
“I… I dunno. Everything is so…fuzzy. All I remember is lightning, steel, and …. Screaming.” Oddayin man sighed a bit and nodded solemnly as the stranger began to slowly eat the meal before him.
“When you took my skin I saw the calluses on your hands. War is an ugly thing. I feel for you young man, I am thankful that I am too old for the king’s men to press me into service again.” Oddayin sat down at table and started to eat himself. With a grunt “I must have missed a bone.” Reaching for the knife on the table he used his spoon to brace a bit of fish in his bowl and carve into in his knife. “Gods damnit I …” And with a skittering crash the bowl and spoon slips and the older man gives himself a healthy cut along the underside of his thumb and sprinkles of red trickles down onto the table. “… Damnit, Damnit, Damnit…” he cursed. “Never get old Boy, the Arthritis will be the death of you.” And sucking on the cut he turns back to the fire to get himself another bowl.
“… hungry…” the stranger whispers quietly. He couldn’t remember who he was. But there something in him. Screaming in him. Something he needed to do. Something that would make everything ok. Adreniline boiled through his limps and he stood. His body moved on his own… no conscience thought moved through his mind. This was like breathing. Like walking.
The essence of being alive.
The old man was surprised as his teeth exploded into his mouth. The stranger has gripped his hand from behind and slammed his face on the stone mantle with such force that he broke everything from the eye socked down. The gurgle of blood that sprayed into the air as the stranger pulled his head back to peer into his eyes from behind splattered the younger man’s face.
“Thank you…” the stranger whispered to the bloody face of the man who had so kindly taken him in. That was part of it too. He was thankful. Thankful down to the very soles of his feet. Shoving Oddayin’s face into the bubbling pot was easy enough. The old man was spry but there was a need in the stranger that gave his limbs strength beyond that of his prey.
A few minutes later he pulled the face and threw the still form of the man to the floor. He didn’t have any thoughts as he reached for the offending knife. And only a lingering glance at the wound on Oddayin’s hands that had awoken these most basic of memories. He knelt before the man, and removed him of his pants.
He didn’t see a person before him. Only meat. And the best meat was the shank in the inner thigh. It would do best, he still didn’t remember why. But he just knew and in short order two long shanks of long pork there thrown into the sea food stew.
But he was impatient. He needed it. He needed it now. Only a few minutes later did he pulls out the shanks and throw them on the bare wood of the table. He placed himself in the old man’s seat and tore into the meat as a carnivore. It awoke things in him. It was right. It was proper. It taught him who he was.
….. Who was he? In the language of his creation he was Lorakaktataria…. ‘The Golden Light’ but that had been so… so long ago.
The People. They Cheered.
They Cheered and chanted his name. The he Lead them with peace, and love. He lead them with Wisdom and reason. They turned to the Regent for matters economic but he himself lead their hearts. And life was grand.
It was so for a long, long time but all ages come to end, the Golden Age of Nivol Astol came to an end as well. Foreign invaders who called themselves the Shadow Guard took up arms against the Race of Nivol Astol and sailed for her shores. ‘War Profiteering’ they called the Nivol Astine’s neutrality. They called the Race wicked, and came with their warships.
The war lasted for decades. Both sides called to their allies and armies marched and clashed in bloody open war. Neither could gain any ground. And so he ground on, and on, and on.
Hatred corrupted the heart of Lorakaktaria. They just would not leave the Race be. He cried out to the One God Raklotz to helps them. To help them push away these human invaders and restore them to former glory… but he did not answer. His God, had fallen Silent.
Desperate Times, called for Desperate Measures and Lorak looked back to the oldest Rituals of the Race, ways that were said to grab the ear of Raklotz. Rituals of Blood, Flesh, and Sacrifice.
After a fury of research it was not long before Lorak placed his first sentient sacrifice upon his alter and in ritual, called out on behalf of all the people of his Homeland. The human prisoner of war was an eempty of the people and according to the old accords a proper sacrifice. As the human’s blood boiled from the corpse the empty hall was filled with Divine Light, the Golden Glow that announced the eye of Raklotz on the world. It grew in intensely from a soft presence to a darker, menacing shade. The light nearly burned his flesh and Lorak grew afraid and cowered in the presence of his god. He watched as the blood from his alter spilled to the floor and began to form a map of the Realm before him and continued to watch in horror as he saw the borders grow and grow… grow until they swallowed Nivol Astol whole.
Lorak rose to his feet and screamed in defiance. “Why?!” he screamed, “Why do we have to fall! Are we not your Chosen, is it not us who brought your Word to the people of Myriador? Why do you discard us so? Do we not deserve prosperity?” But as he screamed the light faded and he was left alone with a blood alter and an empty hall.
The next night, he sacrificed another human, intent on calling his God back… getting his answers. But he did not come.
And then he did it again, the night after that.
Then again, and Again. All the while the power of Divinity fled him, emptied from his body…. He soon found himself unable to form the simplest of healing rituals. Raklotz was withdrawing his power from the people. The Race became uneasy… the priests argued in the Halls of God, and war shifted against them. There was talk of Surrender.
Lorak grew angry. He threw himself into his studies again. The memory of the race was long and their libraries huge. He travelled Nivol Astol for sunken temples and lost stores of novels, and the rituals of old. Barbarian ways they were called. Lorak would warned by his peers that the road he travelled was a dark one, filled with peril… but without the Holy light of Raklotz they could do nothing, for while the power was gone… Lorak still carried all the political strength of High Priest, The Golden Light.
A new alter was built below the temple, and Lorak filled it with his most fanatic followers. And on it’s maiden use Lorak himself laid the knife to 101 prisoners of war. At the end of the ritual each of his 6 Fanatics stepped forward, and tasted of the flesh of the final sacrifice. And Lorak himself, ate of the Heart.
And once again they found themselves filled with Divine energy. But what they were used to. In the months that followed more and more prisoners were sacrificed. The blood of some sacrifices were baked into communion wafers and passed out to the troops. The war began to go well, the Race pushed all the way to Shadow Guard’s homeland.
By this time the Culture of Nivol Astol had changed. Units marched down the streets saluting to the Regent and himself in militant fashion and Lorak himself had stopped seeing them as loyal members of the race, but more tools to gather for him more sacrifices for his table. Every ritual he lead increased his hunger given by the flesh. With every death he felt stronger, more clear minded, more dedicated to the cause. With every sacrifice he honed his skill to the part it became art, and he started noticing things.
Things that were basic fundamentals on how the energies of a sentient being gathered in the body. He began to experiment. Each death teaching him just a little bit more. Soon he discovered he could manipulate these energies, isolate them into specific parts of the flesh. Then.. he could consume them. He became… younger, stronger,.. and more vicious than any time in his long life.
But soon, there were not enough prisoner’s left to continue the rituals. So Lorak himself turned to Prisons. And when the prison’s went empty, he turned to the undesirables. And after that.. he turned to serfs.
By this time, the world was coming to it’s twilight. Demon portals… which had always been a constant problem became even more frequent and outsiders began to stream into Myriador. Shadow Guard was one of the first nations to fall. It never even occurred to Lorak that maybe a combined front of Shadow Guard and Nivol Astol may have been to hold the tide at bay. Such things did not even walk his thoughts, because by this point… he lived from Ritual to Ritual.
Years past, and the Demon war…. Was lost. The last of the Myriadorians: Nivol Astol, Dark Wood, Black Watch, and a few key Champions of Shadow Guard fled the world through a portal of their own. And into a new land…. At least, that was the plan. … for Lorak entered the portal… but as far as anyone knows he never came out the other side…
And now he was here. “Oddayin” he said aloud looking down at the pool of blood and gore that was the old man. “Oddayin. You will live forever in my flesh, and my gift to you… is that your name will be known far and wide. This is my gift to you… for the gift of your flesh.” Oddayin’s clothes fit the New Oddayin’s body surprising well. It was almost as if Raklotz was looking over him again. He left the door open when he left and went to explore this The Dominion of the Unconquered Sun. He was hungry. And it wasn’t long before word of his passing came to haunt the country side. Stories of “Oddayin the Glutton” and “Oddayin the Savage” started to spread an shortly after parents were telling their children to do their chores or else they would feed them to “Oddayin, Devourer of Man. Oddayin the Ghoul.”
Age: ??
Aliases: The Glutton, The Savage, the Devourer of Man. The Ghoul
Race: Pseudo-human.
Origin: Myriador (Baltimore Wargaming Club, then Darkon)
History:
It was the sound of waves that brought him too. The endless crashing against a rough shore and the strong tang of salt in his nostrils brought a ragged cough to his lips.
He was alive.
Still alive.
But there wasn’t much he knew, other than that.
His arms were weak and tired, had he been swimming? Fighting? He couldn’t recall. He couldn’t recall pretty much anything other than that he was parched, and ravenously hungry. Pushing himself to his knees was almost like waging a war all in itself … he almost regretted doing it. He took stock of himself, finding himself barren of almost all his clothing he suddenly felt the cool fall breeze sting his exposed flesh.
‘Move’ something in him said. Some primal desire to survive perhaps.
He stood.
He Fell.
He stood again, and took a step… and then another. It was easier , after that, to move along. But it wasn’t long before a voice shook him from his daze.
“Gee Mister…. You ok?” his eyes raised to see an older man. Maybe in his 60s with a long pole over his shoulder, grizzled beard and stooped back. The stranger shook his head, unsure, and rubbed his eyes and looked to the old man again.
“…. Thirsty.” Was all he could choke out. The old man simply nodded and fumbled with a skin slung over his shoulder. He handed it to the stranger in short order. He drank of the vile win in the skin as eagerly as a piglet suckling a tit. It was nearly half empty before he capped it and handed it back.
“If you washed up on these rocks from a ship wreck, the stars must be with you to not be smashed on rocks…. All my years I have seen many bodies of people, but not one alive.” The older man shook his head in disbelief, “Come with me stranger, I live up and yonder by the wood line, we’ll gets some clothes and food in ya.” The stranger could only nod. He didn’t know how now that he stopped how he would ever start moving again. But he managed and in less than a quarter of a dial, he was sitting in a wooden chair near a growing fire. The old man stood near the fire, ladling out some seafood stew from a large black cauldron over the fire into a set of stout wooden bowls. “Tis’ not fancy. Since my wife passed away I have to make due with what I can. Still, put some meat on those bones of yours, dilute that salt you been drinking I hope. … I’m Oddayin, by the way. What do they call you stranger?”
“I… I dunno. Everything is so…fuzzy. All I remember is lightning, steel, and …. Screaming.” Oddayin man sighed a bit and nodded solemnly as the stranger began to slowly eat the meal before him.
“When you took my skin I saw the calluses on your hands. War is an ugly thing. I feel for you young man, I am thankful that I am too old for the king’s men to press me into service again.” Oddayin sat down at table and started to eat himself. With a grunt “I must have missed a bone.” Reaching for the knife on the table he used his spoon to brace a bit of fish in his bowl and carve into in his knife. “Gods damnit I …” And with a skittering crash the bowl and spoon slips and the older man gives himself a healthy cut along the underside of his thumb and sprinkles of red trickles down onto the table. “… Damnit, Damnit, Damnit…” he cursed. “Never get old Boy, the Arthritis will be the death of you.” And sucking on the cut he turns back to the fire to get himself another bowl.
“… hungry…” the stranger whispers quietly. He couldn’t remember who he was. But there something in him. Screaming in him. Something he needed to do. Something that would make everything ok. Adreniline boiled through his limps and he stood. His body moved on his own… no conscience thought moved through his mind. This was like breathing. Like walking.
The essence of being alive.
The old man was surprised as his teeth exploded into his mouth. The stranger has gripped his hand from behind and slammed his face on the stone mantle with such force that he broke everything from the eye socked down. The gurgle of blood that sprayed into the air as the stranger pulled his head back to peer into his eyes from behind splattered the younger man’s face.
“Thank you…” the stranger whispered to the bloody face of the man who had so kindly taken him in. That was part of it too. He was thankful. Thankful down to the very soles of his feet. Shoving Oddayin’s face into the bubbling pot was easy enough. The old man was spry but there was a need in the stranger that gave his limbs strength beyond that of his prey.
A few minutes later he pulled the face and threw the still form of the man to the floor. He didn’t have any thoughts as he reached for the offending knife. And only a lingering glance at the wound on Oddayin’s hands that had awoken these most basic of memories. He knelt before the man, and removed him of his pants.
He didn’t see a person before him. Only meat. And the best meat was the shank in the inner thigh. It would do best, he still didn’t remember why. But he just knew and in short order two long shanks of long pork there thrown into the sea food stew.
But he was impatient. He needed it. He needed it now. Only a few minutes later did he pulls out the shanks and throw them on the bare wood of the table. He placed himself in the old man’s seat and tore into the meat as a carnivore. It awoke things in him. It was right. It was proper. It taught him who he was.
….. Who was he? In the language of his creation he was Lorakaktataria…. ‘The Golden Light’ but that had been so… so long ago.
The People. They Cheered.
They Cheered and chanted his name. The he Lead them with peace, and love. He lead them with Wisdom and reason. They turned to the Regent for matters economic but he himself lead their hearts. And life was grand.
It was so for a long, long time but all ages come to end, the Golden Age of Nivol Astol came to an end as well. Foreign invaders who called themselves the Shadow Guard took up arms against the Race of Nivol Astol and sailed for her shores. ‘War Profiteering’ they called the Nivol Astine’s neutrality. They called the Race wicked, and came with their warships.
The war lasted for decades. Both sides called to their allies and armies marched and clashed in bloody open war. Neither could gain any ground. And so he ground on, and on, and on.
Hatred corrupted the heart of Lorakaktaria. They just would not leave the Race be. He cried out to the One God Raklotz to helps them. To help them push away these human invaders and restore them to former glory… but he did not answer. His God, had fallen Silent.
Desperate Times, called for Desperate Measures and Lorak looked back to the oldest Rituals of the Race, ways that were said to grab the ear of Raklotz. Rituals of Blood, Flesh, and Sacrifice.
After a fury of research it was not long before Lorak placed his first sentient sacrifice upon his alter and in ritual, called out on behalf of all the people of his Homeland. The human prisoner of war was an eempty of the people and according to the old accords a proper sacrifice. As the human’s blood boiled from the corpse the empty hall was filled with Divine Light, the Golden Glow that announced the eye of Raklotz on the world. It grew in intensely from a soft presence to a darker, menacing shade. The light nearly burned his flesh and Lorak grew afraid and cowered in the presence of his god. He watched as the blood from his alter spilled to the floor and began to form a map of the Realm before him and continued to watch in horror as he saw the borders grow and grow… grow until they swallowed Nivol Astol whole.
Lorak rose to his feet and screamed in defiance. “Why?!” he screamed, “Why do we have to fall! Are we not your Chosen, is it not us who brought your Word to the people of Myriador? Why do you discard us so? Do we not deserve prosperity?” But as he screamed the light faded and he was left alone with a blood alter and an empty hall.
The next night, he sacrificed another human, intent on calling his God back… getting his answers. But he did not come.
And then he did it again, the night after that.
Then again, and Again. All the while the power of Divinity fled him, emptied from his body…. He soon found himself unable to form the simplest of healing rituals. Raklotz was withdrawing his power from the people. The Race became uneasy… the priests argued in the Halls of God, and war shifted against them. There was talk of Surrender.
Lorak grew angry. He threw himself into his studies again. The memory of the race was long and their libraries huge. He travelled Nivol Astol for sunken temples and lost stores of novels, and the rituals of old. Barbarian ways they were called. Lorak would warned by his peers that the road he travelled was a dark one, filled with peril… but without the Holy light of Raklotz they could do nothing, for while the power was gone… Lorak still carried all the political strength of High Priest, The Golden Light.
A new alter was built below the temple, and Lorak filled it with his most fanatic followers. And on it’s maiden use Lorak himself laid the knife to 101 prisoners of war. At the end of the ritual each of his 6 Fanatics stepped forward, and tasted of the flesh of the final sacrifice. And Lorak himself, ate of the Heart.
And once again they found themselves filled with Divine energy. But what they were used to. In the months that followed more and more prisoners were sacrificed. The blood of some sacrifices were baked into communion wafers and passed out to the troops. The war began to go well, the Race pushed all the way to Shadow Guard’s homeland.
By this time the Culture of Nivol Astol had changed. Units marched down the streets saluting to the Regent and himself in militant fashion and Lorak himself had stopped seeing them as loyal members of the race, but more tools to gather for him more sacrifices for his table. Every ritual he lead increased his hunger given by the flesh. With every death he felt stronger, more clear minded, more dedicated to the cause. With every sacrifice he honed his skill to the part it became art, and he started noticing things.
Things that were basic fundamentals on how the energies of a sentient being gathered in the body. He began to experiment. Each death teaching him just a little bit more. Soon he discovered he could manipulate these energies, isolate them into specific parts of the flesh. Then.. he could consume them. He became… younger, stronger,.. and more vicious than any time in his long life.
But soon, there were not enough prisoner’s left to continue the rituals. So Lorak himself turned to Prisons. And when the prison’s went empty, he turned to the undesirables. And after that.. he turned to serfs.
By this time, the world was coming to it’s twilight. Demon portals… which had always been a constant problem became even more frequent and outsiders began to stream into Myriador. Shadow Guard was one of the first nations to fall. It never even occurred to Lorak that maybe a combined front of Shadow Guard and Nivol Astol may have been to hold the tide at bay. Such things did not even walk his thoughts, because by this point… he lived from Ritual to Ritual.
Years past, and the Demon war…. Was lost. The last of the Myriadorians: Nivol Astol, Dark Wood, Black Watch, and a few key Champions of Shadow Guard fled the world through a portal of their own. And into a new land…. At least, that was the plan. … for Lorak entered the portal… but as far as anyone knows he never came out the other side…
And now he was here. “Oddayin” he said aloud looking down at the pool of blood and gore that was the old man. “Oddayin. You will live forever in my flesh, and my gift to you… is that your name will be known far and wide. This is my gift to you… for the gift of your flesh.” Oddayin’s clothes fit the New Oddayin’s body surprising well. It was almost as if Raklotz was looking over him again. He left the door open when he left and went to explore this The Dominion of the Unconquered Sun. He was hungry. And it wasn’t long before word of his passing came to haunt the country side. Stories of “Oddayin the Glutton” and “Oddayin the Savage” started to spread an shortly after parents were telling their children to do their chores or else they would feed them to “Oddayin, Devourer of Man. Oddayin the Ghoul.”