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[Atilliano]

Aarseral woke up from his sleep when he heard a loud noice keep getting harder and harder.
He looked up and saw a meteor breach the atmosphere and race through the sky to lands far away from him.
Well, it looked like a meteor, but was actually something of great power, something ancient compared to him.
''What are you, being that races through the calm night sky?'' He asked to the meteor-thing,
Hoping to get an answer.

[Caesar]

Important! Wiki experts: Please add the artifacts, changes to gods, races, relations, tribes and other creations made during this turn to the wiki. Important!

Turn one: Dawn of the Titans


Amparos creates Ecaras, a spear full of divine energy. - One act

The Lord of Winter creates the Northren, children of the wolf. - One act

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

They resemble humans, though with pale grey hair and flashing blue eyes. They are athletic and cunning, but yet savage and ignorant of the world. They know only that they were created from wolves, born in a great winter storm, and the valley is their home.

Endras creates wellsprings of magic, points of power at which magic takes on physical form.

The Lord of Death creates Draxion - One act

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

A structure suspended in orbit around the womb by godly powers. It is full of empty rooms and long hallways. The air is unbreathable.

Kastheen created the Mayura - One act

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

They are a race of bird people with long grey feathers for hair and a shorter covering of feathers over their bodies, large eyes and sharp curved beaks, and small hands on the second joint of their wings. They also have scaled feet like a birds, complete with talons, and reverse jointed knees.

Magus creates Phoenixes - One act

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Phoenixes are birds made of fire. They have a natural affinity with the magical fire element. They are sentient. When they die, they go to ash. From the ashes a new phoenix will rise. Their population is very small.

Death creates the Guides - One act What do they look like? Might want to add that to the wiki.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

They are beings that exist to guide the dead of sentient beings to the next realm of existence.

Aarseral creates the Fologorh. - One act

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

They look like lizards but are several metres long and stand one metre tall, walking on four legs with brown scales. They have got powerful jaws, razor sharp teeth and claws, but also a thumb-like fifth finger. They are intelligent beings.

Tass creates Flin, a moon of magical polished silver. - Two acts

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

While the moon will be visible in the nightly sky for all, it will shed its light only onto those that desire to be seen.

Phera descends onto The Womb in the form of a fiery inferno. - No acts

The first gods, the Titans of time before time, had acted. Now it was time that chose to act. In the multiverse, there was one thing consistently more potent than the Gods, which left them almost powerless in its tracks. Powerless the Gods had to watch as their actions affected The Womb.

Phera's velocity and the heat her fall from above lit the skies in a deep red. The people of the North raised their heads and primal insticts took over as they howled fearfully to the ball of fire that descended onto the planet. While the ball went, the air didn't change.

Years passed, years of growth for all of the races on the planet. The Northren had grown to a stable population in the icy valley that had been their home since the dawn of time.
Peace and stability are, like all things, subject to entropy. Fire ignited the flame that caused a war between kin. From the red skies hot ashes fell, swept into the air by the impact of the Titan of the sun, granting life to the story of a young man of the Northren tribe.

Mortals of all kinds are born, yet some are born better. Some know instinctively about things they can't learn. Some know about things they should not know. Ictor was one of these mortals, born with knowledge of the Gods.

Ictor was silent and peaceful for his kind. He wasn't a good hunter, nor was he a good fighter, but he did know exactly what to eat and what not to eat. Ictor was a thinker.

From the skies the ashes fell, and they lit the forests of the Northren valley on fire. Some mortals died, others suffered greatly, but overall, the Northren, being hunter-gatherers, did not suffer any real losses. One of the missing tribesmen was young Ictor.

His hide burned off his body, his face molten, but his spirit strengthened, Ictor woke up. His surroundings were dead, his skin was dead, but his mind was alive. Not his body but his mind managed to get up and look around. He panted, he breathed irregularly, and he moaned in poan, but his eyes remained fixed on something else: Fire. His instincts were not strong enough, his pain was not strong enough, and his curiosity could not have been any more curious.
On the edge of a clearing, burning branches had fallen into the snow. While some branches had stopped burning, others had not. Underneath the wood a rat had been trapped, and its smell made Ictor drool. He took a step- Endless pain- and looked again. The snow, one of their immortal enemies, had been slain. Around the fire Ictor found naught but dried forest floor. Ictor reached out, and his claw firmly gripped the burning piece of wood that would normally have made him run and never stop. The Overgoddess gasped for air as the first technology was discovered.

Ictor returned to the tribe, his skin gone, his face disfigured, and told them of the wonders he had seen. He told them of the Lady of Flame, and how she had given them fire. Most of the fearful Northren refused to learn his teachings. Some others start spreading the word of 'The Lord of Winter', 'Father of the Wolves'. Eventually he was killed by the leader of the tribe, his skin torn, his face beaten, his bones broken, and with this death five Gods were born from blood. Jack, the God of murder, born as his face hit the ground and spilled his brain. Carmanthyre, God of Heroes, born as those that had believed him mourned his death. Lord Hunger, as their saddened howls turned to groans of hate. Killa Khan, God of Battle, as his corpse was trampled by the enraged crowd, followed by Rahisael, as the enraged group turned to fear as they were overwhelmed by those that had rejected Ictor's word, chasing them out of the valley, further north, leaving the others behind as they embrace the Lord of Winter.

Broken physically and harmed mentally they traveled, traversing the polar ice, aided by the power of fire and their now firm belief in Phera, known to them as the Lady of Flame.


While most of the Mayura accepted the Lady of Temper as their patron God, there were those that doubted. From dusk to dawn, from day to night, they flied with her whenever they were not hunting or looking for prey. Those few got tired. On a warm morning underneath the still vaguely red sky they assembled. It was not a rendez-vous, but more of a spill of entropy. The oldest of them spoke, a male with silvery feathers and a strange red stripe on his beak:
"The Lady of Temper answers to no one, so why should we?"

His voice traveled over the plains, his gestures wild but graceful, as he made them a proposition:
"We will live by our own rules, and we will keep them. They will be our law, our way of life. Who is with me?"

Without hesitation the entire group, small as they were, raised their wings for the charismatic elder.
One screamed:
"We will not kill one another!"
Another yelled:
"We will not steal another's food!"
Softly screeched were the words:
"We will not force our will upon any other."

While the sun continued to rise above the horizon, they took off, traveling to the south.
While they departed, all failed to notice the man sleeping there were the elder's talons had kissed the ground.


There were many creatures on the Womb, but none were as special as the Fologorh. At the very least, that was what they believed. They grew very old, they grew wise, but there were only few of them. The felt attracted to the wellsprings of magic, and there they shared their knowledge of nature with another mythical type of creature: The Phoenixes. Both were rare, both were innately magical, and year after year, generation after generation, they returned to the well of Nature, as they called it. While completely different from one another, the two mythical races respected, and in some cases even loved one another. One night, two of the beings met, the God Aarseral not far away. They talked, they taught, they learned, and they loved. It drained all life from them, not because it was impossible for them, but because they unlocked yet another instinct in the far away Overgoddess. With their love and deaths, Voltarucus was born.


Phera's descension onto the Womb lights the sky on fire.
The sentient races live to become larger populations.

War of the Northren
Ictor, a Northren, is born.
A storm of burning ashes hits the valley of the Northren.
Ictor is extremely disfigured by the fires.
Ictor invents fire.
Akiel, God of Technology, is born.
Ictor makes the tribes of the Northern split between those loyal to the Lord of Winter and a smaller group loyal to Phera.
Phera gains the title 'Lady of Fire'.
The Lord of Winter gains the title 'Father of the Wolves'.
The Lord of Winter is now associated with the animal 'wolf'.
Phera gains the sphere 'Fire'.
Ictor is murdered.
Jack, God of Murder, is born.
Ictor is declared to be martyr in the name of the Lady of Fire.
Carmanthyre, God of Heroes, is born.
The followers of the Lady of Fire hunger for revenge.
The Lord of Hunger is born.
The Lord of Hunger gains the sphere 'Revenge'.
Ictor's followers engage into battle with the rest of the Northren tribe.
Killa Khan, God of Battle, is born.
Ictor's followers are beaten and forced to flee over the North pole.
Rahisael, God of War, is born.

Freedom of Wings
Kastheen gains the title 'Lady of Temper'.
A small group of Mayura leaves Kastheen.
The small group of Mayura invent laws.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

We will not kill one another.
We will not steal another's food.
We will not force our will upon any other.

Terron, God of Laws, is born.

Union of Wisdom
The Folorogh and the Phoenixes meet one another at a particular wellspring, The Wellspring of Nature.
The Wellspring of Nature grows slowly in power.
Voltarucus, God of Nature, is born.


Acts

Code: [Select]

Aarseral: 2
Amparos: 2
Endras: 2
Kastheen: 2
Magus: 2
The Lord of Death: 2
The Lord of Winter: 2
The Psychopomp: 2
Phera: 2
Akiel: 1
Carmanthyre: 1
Jack: 1
Killa Khan: 1
Lord Hunger: 1
Terron: 1
Rahisael: 1
Tass: 1
Voltarucus: 1

[Atilliano]

Feeling the life draining out of the folorogh and the phoenix, Aarseral suddenly became aware of a powerful being that appeared where the two lovers lay dead on the ground. He asked himself; What is this?
Then he asked the 'thing': What are you, being?

[Apple Master]

As the life seeps gently out of the now-deceased Phoenix and its lover, the very essence of life winds its way down, through the moss around the well, down further, until it twines around the roots of a tree. The tree begins to grow, unceasingly growing taller and taller, higher than some hills. As it gets taller still, it grows in girth. After a while, the creaking noise that it was making ceases, and all is still. As the tree ceases to grow, seeds fall from it, fluttering like deliquent butterflies to the ground, and then walking, no, scuttling across the floor, burrowing into the ground, ready to grow into more trees.
And yet, while this happens, another being awakes. I have been asleep for so long, and only now do I feel the call of nature The God of Nature, Voltarucus, awakes, summoned into life by the death of these two creatures, and made aware by the voice of another. "I am Voltarucus, God of Nature, Reveal yourself, if you please". Voltarucus rises, calling into existence a fragile body, of no power, but of great wisdom.
Hm, I sense much potential in this land... I will rest, and later I will build myself a place here, and sow the seed of my creation.
Voltarucus creates the Tree of Nature, a grand tree that towers over many other landmarks, and yet remains a rare sight, calling on the moon to veil it
If you feel it is beyond my one act to create both the grand tree and the great forest, kindly opt for the tree.

[Karnewarrior]

Names.

Names are dreadfully important. It is with names that we denote not only ourselves but our surroundings into separate things. The absence of names is the absence of language, and the absence of language is the absence of knowledge. And the absence of knowledge is the absence of sentience.

Names, are dreadfully important.

Something has a name. Something that awakens beneath the torn flesh of a brutally murdered hero. It is not aware of it's own existance, because while it has a name, no-one knows that name. But that is how all heroes begin, nameless, and confused, newborns to a world far older than they. In time, this name, this disembodied spirit would find its way into a body, and then, into a mind. And with a mind, a name can do terrible things. Great things too, but terrible stories of tragedy and loss.

 But all stories have happy endings, even if that ending is the release that death brings. And some stories begin with endings, like ours. In their infinite variety, stories have no definite form, and a god of heroes, like the stories he blongs to, takes the lack of a form and makes it his own.

 It was for this reason Carmanthyre was so small, so invisible. A single mote of power, searching for a home. The dead flesh would not do, for he was a god of heroes, not villans, and walking corpses are rarely potrayed as good. No, it would have to be something to keep him in his element, some weapon for use by the rightious, the mighty.

 Carmathyre would have to search for a blade.

 There was, in fact, few daggers in the Wolf-man encampment. And they were tools, not weapons. Not yet. Carmantyre, a newborn, would have to build his own home, show his power so soon after exiting the womb of the First Hero.

 And so the fledgling god took one of the stone blades sitting around him, and changed it. The blade was of shining steel, flashing with a fire that was not there. The hilt was made of ornate gold, ever-changing, for it took record of all the major events the blade has seen and inscribes them impossibly small on the blade.

 And The Blade became the home of Carmathyre. The Blade became a god-in-waiting, for while Carmanthyre was within the blade, his power was blocked. Though the blade was impervious to damage, mudane or divine, it also prevented the use of power by the god inside. But Carmanthyre did not mind. He was no god of war or battle, and did not wish death upon anyone.

Carmanthyre was a storyteller. A liar. A preformer.

A Hero.

Carmanthyre creates The Blade, a sword of steel and gold, impossibly sharp, that depicts its life story in infintesimal images on the hilt and pommel. It cannot be destroyed, but Carmathyre cannot act out of it without a host.

[Iituem]

"AAAAAAUURGGHH!!!"

The death cry echoed through the meeting grounds as Old Silver, the leader of the tribe, dealt the final blow.  It travelled upward and was caught by a peal of thunder which carried it, singing, through the endless sky.  Back and forth across the world the desperate scream rang, chilling hearts and freezing minds with terror until at last it resounded back to the place of fire where Ictor had been burned.  The song of murder melted into the ashes, covered the ground until the time was right for it to take shape.

The time was right when someone was there to bear witness.  A northren found the site of the Lady of Fire's revelation to Ictor.  His name... does it matter?  Does one life or death amongst countless really matter enough to give him a name?

Yes.

Very well, then.  His name was Ice, but in honour of the Lady he had changed it to Water.  He had felt a compulsion to come here, a need to... there was no word for it yet.  But he needed to recognise the power and the majesty of the Lady.  And there was another reason.  Ictor.  Again, there was no word, but he needed to recognise the importance of... of Ictor.  Of one he looked up to.  And to express sadness at his passing.  One day, there would be words to say all of this.  For now, there was only feeling.

There was a gesture that the northren had used in his tribe, to show that they recognised the dominance of the chief.  They would sink to both knees and bow their heads to the floor.  Water bowed no longer to Old Silver, or the Lord of Winter, but he was not a leader.  He too would bow, but there had only ever been one man worthy.

So Ice bowed before Fire and was Water, in honour of the one who had been burned.

aaaauughhhh...

Water rose from his bow, frowning.  He thought he had heard a voice upon the wind.

aaaauughhhh...

There!  There it was again.

"Aaargh!"

A hand plunged up from the ash.  Which is not to say that a hand plunged up from beneath the ash.  It seemed at once to Water to be both ash and flesh at once, an arm burning in reverse.  The arm grabbed the earth and pulled.  Inch by inch, a head, a chest, a body emerged from the ground, gradually becoming more and more real.  All throughout, the scream persisted until the being was fully formed, whereupon it ceased.  Water stared in wonder and horror at the creature before him.

"I-Ictor?"

It looked just like him.  Every feature, down to the burns - except for his hair.  What little hair remained on Ictor's body had gone from its natural grey to a deep, inky black.  The creature looked up at Water with hungry, desperate eyes.

"Ictor!  You're alive!" Water cried.  The creature did not heed him.  It searched the ground with its clear blue eyes, then scrabbled in the dirt until it found what it had sought.  When it rose, a shard of rock was gripped in its hand, chipped by nature and chance to a point.

"Ictor, it's me!" Water called out, stepping away from the ghastly image approaching.  The creature faltered in its step.

"Ice?" it asked, and its voice was indeed that of Ictor.  "Ice, is that you?"  Dim memory leaked into its consciousness.  Of course, that was Ice, and this was the place of Fire.  And... and he had died.  No, it had not died.  Ictor had died, and it recalled things.  But  Flin was in the wrong phase.  Time has passed.  Days?  Months?  Years?  It needed more information.

Water started to back away a little more hurriedly as the creature advanced again.  He grinned, worriedly.

"H-hey, Ictor!  No need to be anxious, I didn't side with Old Silver!  I'm your friend, remember?"

"I remember," the creature said, "but I am not Ictor."

"Th-then who are you?  Who are you?!" Water screamed as the creature leapt, pinning him to the ground.  It put its face right next to Water's and growled.

"I. Am. Murder."

Murder stabbed and stabbed with the rock, pinning down Water's thrashing body with its powerful limbs as the terrified northren tried to struggle free.  Soon enough, the struggle grew limp, then stopped.  Murder waited for the last blood to flow, then shivered.  A ripple passed across its skin and momentarily it bore the face of Water.

"Two months," it growled once its face has returned to that of Ictor.  "Two months and three days since he died.  Time to pay a visit to Old Silver."

Murder walked away from the place of fire, hand still clutching the first knife and dripping with blood.  Blood fell, mixed with ash.  A body lay in the ash, blood soaking into the ground.

One day, flowers would grow here.  But not this day.


Jack manifests wearing the face of Ictor, and commits a murder.  He heads on his way to find Old Silver, the northren chief.

Rules of Play for Jack:
Jack knows only what murderers and the murdered knew at the time of the murder, plus whatever he learns independently.
Jack can only wear the face of murderers or the murdered, save that their hair/scales/minor features change to black.

[Atilliano]

I am Aarseral, god of life, and I have long waited to meet someone like me.
Aarseral steps out of the thick forest so that Voltarucus can see him.
I see you are new in this world, and I feel you are a bringer of life, yet different than me. More focused on the nature than life itself.
I haven't really met something like us, I have 'seen' one, but I had no time talking with him.
The creature without the wings is a Folorogh, a beautiful creation of mine.
And the winged creature is a Phoenix, a magical beast which creator I still haven't met.
This world can be brutal at times, but most of the time its paradise, atleast this part of it.
Now I want to ask you, how did you come here?

[Lordinquisitor]

Rahisael could literally taste the blood and violence that hung in the air as he was born. It felt good, like water after a long period of thirst. He fully embraced the moment savoring every second of it.

War had awoken from it`s slumber.

He was dimly aware of the other gods born in the same moment; But while interested in them he felt that he should first try to gain an foothold in this world before contacting them.

The Northren drew his attention. A savage fury was in them, just like in some wild beast. They were the first to spill the blood of their brothers, reviving him in the process. Needless to say, he liked them.

They would serve his purpose.

He choosed some Northren, enough to support a small population, and twisted them with his savage magic. He felt that they were made from wolves and in his unique humor he turned them into wolves again.

Halfway.

And thus he created the Wargaz.

And when he heard their eerie howling he joined in with a thundering laughter.

Rahisael creates the Wargaz, savage wolf men.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The Wargaz

A race of savage Northren that can transform into wolves at will*.
Upon transforming into a wolf they get violent visions of Rahisael, Battle and Bloodshed. While they are no mindless berserkers (most of the time!), and might even peacefully trade with other races, they really enjoy battle and hunting which naturally leads to war.

*They first have to learn that ability, though. Inexperienced wargaz are only able to transform into wolves under some kind of stress (Battle, a religious or drug induced trance, the thrill of hunt..) But over the time they learn and master the ability to transform into wolves at will.

The transformation is usually quite painful, but at the same time powerful pain relieving hormones are released. The radical changes to the body, the mind and the senses will often overwhelm those experiencing it the first time.

The transformation is gradual and doesn`t cause problems that could inhibit the performance of a warrior during a fight. (E.g there are no convulsations, or fits.) The hands, for example, turn smoothly into claws.

The transformation is complete after circa five minutes. Transforming back into a human takes the same time.

Not every wargaz will turn into a wolf during battle; As a rule of thumb about half of them might feel the urge to transform into one during a fight or hunt. (Though, those that mastered the art of shapechanging might do so anytime.)

Rahisael erases their memories of their previous life as Northren (But they retain their knowledge.) and places them at the foot of a mountain, in a forest. The Northren valley is nearby, but not so near that they will have immediate contact within the next days. (Or even weeks?)

While they would be able to build a permanet camp they prefer to life a nomadic life, in accordance with their inner wolf.

[Apple Master]

"The death of those two wonderful creatures caused me to awaken. I have been in slumber for a long time now, and they awakened my mind. You are correct, I exist to create nature, although life is an extension of such.

[Evergod41]

Battle... Fights... Scuffles... Simple disagreements, with a simple push, can turn into violent bloodlust... and that is what he liked...

Not the bloodlust, but what came with it, the honour of a fair fight. With both sides coming away stronger, even if one dies. It was under this notion that Khan, the god of battles, was awakened. Though at first, and for now still is, just a notion, a murmer, or a small ripple in the ocean; soon he shall become more, stronger, powerful, and worthy of many things...

When Ictor died, and in such a tradgic way, Khan became upset, not only because of the fight he was slain in, but that not one of his tribe showed respect for the man. So, he did something about it, after everything had setteled down in the area. He molded the snow around him, tough this was not his forte, and created a statue, one that would last through weathering, and even melting, to show honour, and respect for the dead.

Khan then wandered the lands for a bit, finding no more events like the one that had caused him to be. He stopped in a middleground, a place reacheable to all, yet as of now un-inhabited... and started building once more, not a statue, but an arena!

Khan started simple, trampling the earth, and removing the grasses and trees that lived there. He used the surrounding woods to build a palisade around the area, and placed simple animals inside, two at a time, one predator, one prey. Khan watched them fight, and remove the winner and place two more animals... He became entertained at this, and sought to have the sentient beings fight in a way simmilar to this...

So Khan sat in the middle, and called out to all of the worlds fighters, the strong, the powerful, and the wise. Of every race in existance, to come to his arena, and fight in glorious battle.

Killa Khan creates a resistant statue made of hardened snow in the north, it has no power, but holds respect for all who die.
Killa Khan creates his arena, and calls fighters of all races to fight in it.

[Atilliano]

I see you have created this tree, very interesting.
I can feel the roots go deep into the ground.
You also made the forest a lot bigger than it was.
You are definetly someone of great power, and someone who uses it wisely.
Maybe, someday, we could be friends, or even allies.
Aarseral walks to the bodies of the creatures and sits down in front of them. He says something in a strange language,
stands up and says:
I am sure we will meet again.
A flash of light shines off the skin of Aarseral and he is gone into the woods again.

[Ghazkull]

Hate.

hate as cold as ice.

howls echoed through the night.

They ripped as one through the veil and awakened him.

another wave of howls.

The Maw opened its eyes.

it had been called.

NO.It had been forged. From hunger.from hate.from revenge.

He felt it. It was a good pain.

Another howl ripped through the night.

It was ajoined by the howling of the icy wind. The night seemed to end, but it was still dark. Slowly The Maw stood up and looked around. The light of Flin still shone with his ghostly silver. He looked over to the light. it was a small campfire. Barely burning and keeping the bodies around alive. Fog began to stream around his legs and entering the camp. As the Lord Hunger slowly approached more and more of the fog walled up behind him. In that moment the first of the Northren awoke, and glared at him in terror.
Instantly he woke his kin.

Do not fear mortal beings. Do not fear the hunger. Embrace it. Follow it. But take your time and savour it. Follow your hunger for revenge and kill your monstrous brethren. They have betrayed the Lady of Fire but the Lady has given you the weapons to force your revenge upon them! Use the fire and feast on their corpses! Do what i say and you will earn power! The Power of your enemies!

[Iituem]

Silver ate away from the others now.  This was odd in a chief, but then these were odd times.  Everyone was a little less certain since Ictor's killing.  There had been deaths before in fights, of course.  Accidents.  The point of a fight was territory, to drive away another rather than kill him.  But Ictor's ideas had been too dangerous.  To go against the Lord of Winter?  Against our very creator by siding with this... this bitch of a Goddess of Flame?  Pfah.  No, he had no choice but to kill him outright - to chase him away would merely let his ideas spread elsewhere.

Already those tainted by them had been cast out, but there were still fights.  Time would tell whether they would return to gain the upper hand - but Silver would stand against that day if he could.

"The old ways," he muttered to himself between bites of rat, "are best."

"But times change, whether you want them to or not," said a voice behind him.  Silver swung, hands stretched into claws to show his displeasure to whatever impudent whelp had interrupted him.  He froze mid-swipe, the colour draining from his face.

"Y-you!" he stuttered.  "But you-  you're-"

"You know, I'll say this about fire," the figure wearing Ictor's face said, "sure does make the meat taste better."

"I'll hear none of your filth, Ictor," Silver hissed.  "Fire works against the Father of Wolves, it has no place here.  Have you come to kill me?"

Ictor's face darkened.  "I should."  Silver's eye flicked to his hand, still bearing flecks of dried blood beneath the nails where it gripped a sharp stone.  He tensed, waiting for the strike.  "But I won't," the creature said.  "After all, I'm far too much like you."  Its face changed to one more familiar, one sometimes glimpsed in a clear pool on a cloudless day.  Every feature perfect, except the hair - no longer silver but coal black and glistening.

"You're not Ictor," said Silver.

"Well done," laughed the creature harshly.  "Nor, obviously am I you.  What would you call this?"  It held up the sharp rock.

"A shah*, what else?" said Silver.

"And this is made from shah, hence it shall be shaq**.  And that is my name.  You may call me Shaq."  Shaq smiled at the name.  It fit, very nearly.

"Alright.  So who in the name of the Winter Lord are you, that can wear the faces of the dead?"

"I am Shaq, and that is all there is to it," said Shaq, waving its hand.  "But I have come to congratulate you, Old Silver.  You were the first to kill another with the intent to kill.  How does it feel to be the first murderer?"

Silver ignored the question.  "Why are you here, Shaq?  I refuse to believe such a spirit would come out of kindness."

"You would be right.  I have come to make you an offer, Silver.  I know you fear for the future of your tribe.  I know you fear not only the fire-wielders but the other tribes out there who would drive you away from these lands and force you back into the barren wilds.  I come with a solution."

"And what solution is that, pray?"

"Well, it's one you already stumbled across, Old Silver.  Stop chasing your enemies away.  Start killing them.  The shaq I hold here will be a first step - they are not hard to make.  Chip a rock like this with a harder rock until it has an edge - you will find it cuts flesh much better than tooth or nail.  And then I have an offer to make to you and your tribe personally."  Shaq narrowed its borrowed eyes.

"Kill for me.  Murder.  And for every man you murder and dedicate his death in my name, I will make you stronger.  I will make you faster, and tougher, and a thing to be feared.  And this will go for all of your followers.  The more they kill, the stronger I will make them.  With a tribe of such terrible killers, you could be more than chief of one clan.  You could be a chief of chiefs.  One higher than any other - except myself and the Lord of Winter, of course.  You would fear nothing from any other clan - not being cast out, not theft or even murder."

Shaq judged Silver's expression.  He did not seem impressed.

"A test then," it said.  "Stop me from killing you."

And with that, Shaq lunged with the knife.  Silver moved without thinking, faster than he had ever moved even in his youth, stepping to the side and grabbing Shaq's wrist, bending it to take the blade.  Before he knew what had happened, the knife was his.  Shaq let out a peal of cruel laughter, shaking loose his arm.

"Heed my offer, Silver.  A pact with me will make you stronger than anyone has ever known."

Shaq turned to leave, then paused.  He glared back with vicious eyes.

"One more thing, Silver.  You will kill for me.  I make this a promise to your tribe - if you do not kill for me at least once in a year, I will come back and visit you, and I will leave only you standing to spread my message.  And hey, the kills stack.  So kill five people, I won't come back for five years.  Can't get better than that, can you?  Right now, though?  You have a month.  Get started."

Shaq gave a little half-bow and walked away.  He passed behind a tree and seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving Silver alone to consider his offer.



Jack introduces the concept of knapping and flint knives to Silver's clan.
Jack gives Silver an offer - kill in His name and receive divine empowerment.
(If both require acts, just the latter - that's the more important curse/boon.)


*Old Northren for 'rock'.
**Old Northren for 'knife'.

[ragnarok97071]

Death.
This should not be possible, but it is.
A phoenix dies. Magus comes.
A forest has grown in this place of power.
"Who has brought true death to my creation?" He asks.
He is not angry, but curious. He had imbued the pheonixes with the cycle of life, death, and rebirth, and untill now, their growth had been at a near standstill. If someone had begun killing them, they could be wiped out quite easily.

[Acanthus117]

The Psychopomp examined his Guides; shapeless, formless beings without face or name, purely existing to send souls on their way to... wherever they were meant to go. Death was satisfied.

As the fallen souls of the dead, Northren and whatever beasts stalked the Womb, were taken to the great Beyond, the god decided to craft something for himself.

He took a lump of shadow, and molded it with his hands. Applying divine influence on the pure shadow, the God of Death crafted muscle and bone, sinew and tendons, until a being, similar in appearance to the God of Death lay before him. He did not stop with the body, however, and reached into the very mind and nascent soul of the being, tuning it to be more receptive to the magic that permeated the world. The first one was a male, the God decided, and so he crafted another, this time female.

Man... and woman. Good.

He decided to call the two beings Humans, after some long forgotten memory. The Lord of Death breathed life into the two forms, and then, with another surge of divine power, created several hundred pairs of the two, similar in shape and form, but individual in detail and countenance. Death set them down in the lushest, greenest place he could find.

Death creates Man, and instills within them a 'sixth sense' for magic. He then creates enough mating pairs to create a stable gene pool, and sets them down in the most verdant place he can find.