Godhood 3 IC: Who Worships the Worshippers?

[Tychris1]

The Way to Aodoma

Hurl was greatly displeased! He was Hurl! Demon Prince! Spawn of Tar and Devourer of Life! He had trusted these two in there promise of boats and remaining to be eaten, yet they betrayed him! Alright, so maybe Demons themselves aren't all too reliable, but hey! They weren't Demons! So they don't have any moral high ground to cover up their lying.

"Release them this instant! Traitors! Vermin! Liars! Boat-Liars! I am Hurl! Favored son of Kalamar! I will strip the skin from your bones and use your bones to craft the magnificent boat you lied about! And then I’ll eat you! Well. Not your bones. Because I need those for the boat, and I guess by the time the boat is finished your skin will have rotted away. But I’ll eat your hearts! Yeah, that's what I’ll do."

The Demon began waving his overly muscled arms through the air, flailing them about uselessly as he attempted to reach the Replicant. Eventually he began to hop up and down, even standing on the very tips of his appendages in order to reach them, with no avail. Desperation and anger were quickly building up in him, and he began to spit out even more vitriolic and nonsensical words.

"Uhhh.... Let them down please? I won't eat them. I promise! Really I do!.... Ok, so, revise that. I will just break their legs. Ok, one leg. A bone? How about their femur, no one needs a femur. Come on, just get them down. Look, I’m going to open my mouth, and on the count of three you drop them, ok? 1...2....3-You didn't drop them! I thought we had an understanding here. GRARGH! I'll light your whole pathetic settlement on fire! I'll lift it up and dash it against the rocks for my Lord Kalamar, and then he will laugh at your pathetic cries of pain! I will fillet you and roast you over a large bonfire of your kin, slowly marinating you with the blood of your ancestors and exotic spices. I will rend your homes asunder, destroy their remnants, and craft a mighty boat from it! I will sail the high seas, the wind at my back, and the smell of salt in the air. The cool, refreshing breeze of ocean water..... The sight of fish dancing through the air before splashing back in.... The soft sun overhead......"

He quickly grew distracted, enthralled by his delusions of what owning a boat will feel like, and the occasional burst of pirate fantasies. Looking off to the distance, he almost enters a dream like state, drooling from what could be described as his mouth. As his drool hits his arm he snaps back to attention and suddenly hits a stroke of brilliance.

"Oh, I know! You give me a boat, and I tell all the other Demons that the place you are going to is really boring and dumb, and that they should go to other places for more fun. How about it?"

The One Who Got Away

Far off, in both time and distance, was a little tavern off to the side of the road. It was situated on the outskirts of Lampide, far enough to be out of sight, but close enough to still be in mind. The sun had set a while back, and the inhabitants of the tavern didn't let it faze them one bit. For within were housed some of the less then moral individuals. Not those who commit "Unholy" acts (Though occasionally they do stumble in for refuge, though are refused on sight due to the heat they will bring) but those who cheat and steal and con.

As the night wore on, patrons came and patrons left, and a drinking game was beginning where folks talked about "The one who got away". May it be a loved one, a treasured item, or a great con gone awry. All but one of the consistent patrons had told a story. He was a thin man, garbed in leather tanned to blend in with the dark, and a hood to match. A single blade hanged by his side, gently caressed by his knuckle glove covered hand, and his other hand holding his head in place. He had entered long before the others and stayed long after.

Raising a mug, one of the fatter and more obnoxious story tellers bumped his belly into the quiet stranger and barked "Aye mate, yah dun' not told a story yet! Ya dun' nutin but sit dar, aint drinkin' or laughing. Come on mate, tell me yah story!" With that he busted out in slobber covered laughter. Wiping the grime from his suit, the thin stranger sighed and looked over at the fat man. From the glassy texture of his eyes and the heavy rank of belligerent stupidity in his breath it was clear that he would not be leaving soon. Ordering a drink for himself he succumbed and said "Fine, I’ll tell you my story." Taking a sip from his mug he continued.

"I almost stole Kalamar's Sword."

The patrons went dead silent as they heard what he said, but the thin man ignored them and continued.

"It wasn't simple. I was off over at Qalistad, ready to steal from some caravan or another. When out from the dark I got dragged back and gagged. Next thing I know I’m in some building or another. Three guards stood over me, blades to my throat, and I thought I’d been caught. But out from the dark comes this heavily robed man, can't tell a damn detail about him, and he starts talking. Apparently he's an envoy for the Royal Family of Qalai or a member of it. He was never too specific over it. From what he had heard, Kalamar had forged a sword. Not just any sword, a powerful artifact that could rend sanity itself, and must be removed from his hands as quickly as possible. However, a direct attack would be highly improbable and lead to the death of countless people. So, a lither plan was needed, so a thief was needed. Me. I was to be paid an exuberant amount, half up front, and the other half after the deed was done.

If I attempted to take the money and run, they would cut my feet off, then my hands, then my tongue, and finally my head. Rather liking my appendages, I decided that the job would be a nice story to die by, and took the forced offer.

As a wise man once said, know thy enemy, and so I decided to do some research. The artifact was called Ca’thur, Insanity Edge, and Soul Bleeder. Demons referred to it as the Blade of Strife and Discord. Considering how the Demonic race is, there was plenty of bull**** surrounding how exactly it was forged. Some say a great whale beached itself and spat out the blade. Others say that the blade was just a regular sword Kalamar repeatedly used, stained by his very presence. Some say it was a gift from Onore after he did the Divine dance. Others spoke of fantastical adventures, massive hallucinations, rainbows, fighting an entire storm, riding meteors, underground mole people, and yet stranger things. From what I can piece together this is what really happened.

Apparently one day Kalamar decided that he needed a signature. Something that would invoke his image, his terrifying presence, and usher his name without him being there. A symbol of power and a tool to further his pleasure. So he set about creating one.

Now, making a weapon is a simple enough matter, and Kalamar could forge a powerful blade by slapping his hands together and rubbing quickly. But he needed more then a strong blade, he needed it to be legendary, he needed it to be shrouded in myth and legend and wield fantastic power. He needed it to be as much a physical embodiment of himself as his hand is. So he needed to create a chassis for it, to carefully select each component of it and set about acquiring it.

The first component was the hilt and scabbard. Considering that it would be as treacherous and chaotic as Kalamar was, he needed a proper safety measure for the blade, a cooling order for Kalamars rampaging chaos. As hilarious as a wanton blade roaring and flying about would be, it would be a highly ineffective weapon and an even worse symbol. So Kalamar sought after a hive of Replicants, seeking their metallic and orderly shells to act as his controlling factor. His imps reported of a small hive not too far away from them, with rumors spreading of a colossal sized Replicant amongst them, and so Kalamar whisked himself away to go find them.

What exactly happened inside of the hive is not entirely known, but this is what I do know. Kalamar came in, stomping and roaring, demanding to fight their biggest and baddest Replicant. They refused, at first, thinking this was a waste of their time. But after he piledrivered some of the Replicants they soon complied. The thing was rumored to be gargantuan, far larger then even Kalamar. Or maybe it was just a bunch of them who got sick of his crap and ganged up on him. Either way, the fighting was tense. Blood and metal were sent flying about as they fought, the entire cave shook from the sheer amount of power being thrown about, and the Replicants fought like a surgical knife. Precise and deadly, they coordinated themselves effortlessly, taking different formations and attempting to attack at all sides. Yet Kalamar swatted them aside like the insects they were, and began to thrash them and their gargantuan Replicant. As a last ditch effort they attempted to collapse a part of the cave on him, but to no avail as he used the debris to further smash them. The Replicants were worried, thinking Kalamar would kill them all for their failure to end him, but instead he collected one antennae and one pincer from the Replicant he defeated (Or a bunch of little ones).

Having trounced the Replicants, acquiring his hilt and scabbard in the process, Kalamar decided he needed to get the guard. He needed an intermediary force, something chaotic yet trustworthy. Something he knew he could rely on partially, yet was able to tap into the chaoticly destructive elements he called his own. Knowing just where to find such a thing, Kalamar departed the area and left for the birthplace of Demons.

The volcano on which he had birthed Demons was mostly converted. Demons were sprawled all along and inside of it, carving the mountainside to make their own primitive city. As Kalamar descended he was met with a chrous of praise, yet he cared not for his current children. He had someone else in mind, someone far older. One of the first 3 Demons, the only one he knew to still be alive. Burying himself deep within the Volcano, the Demon would not make himself an easy target. So Kalamar decided to do the simple answer to his problem. So he blew out the side of the Volcano. This I know to be true, as the Volcano still bears a gaping wound in it from Kalamars actions. Severely hollowed out by the Demons, while being aided by said Demons, and possessing the powers of wanton destruction made detonating the Volcano a simple action. Amongst the rubble and debris was one of his firstborn children, still in a state of slumber despite all that it has been through. Like any good father, Kalamar patted his child on the back, and took his spinal chord to be used as the guard.

Whatever extra pieces remained of the spine was used as the fuller for the last component, the Blade. Now, this was the most important part of the weapon, and so Kalamar spent the most time deciding what to make it out of. Finally he nestled his brain on what to do. Find another shard, infuse his own being into it before it could develop, and twist it beyond recognition. Now, the Shards don't just come by like clockwork, no they are a rare thing indeed. So instead of waiting for one to just fall by Kalamar went hunting. He scoured the land and even the void up above, until one day he found it. Kalamar seized the shard visciouslly, not giving it a time to react, and began to flood it with the emotions of freedom and chaos. Some say the shard nearly imploded on itself, others that it almost took Kalamar with it. All I know for sure is that Kalamar returned unscathed, with a horribly twisted piece of black metal that hurts your eyes if you stare at it for too long.

With all of his components in one place, all Kalamar needed was a forge. Returning to the Volcano he so unceremoniously detonated, he plunged the materials into the hot lava below him, and began to work. For 5 days and 5 nights he hammered away at the pieces he had assembled. They struggled, refusing to fit together properly, and large swathes of lava erupting were a common sight as Kalamar attempted to force them together. With each day he infused more and more of his being into the weapon, forcing them closer and closer together, and finally upon the sixth day Kalamar had managed to force them into one shape. Draping his own skin over the weapon to complete the process, Kalamar looked it over and was pleased. It was as mutable as he was, coated in a miasma of pure change and destruction that protected those adapted tp them but wracked the lawful with horrid pain.

Wreathed in power ascendant Kalamar departed, weapon in tow, and decided to test the weapon out. As to how I almost stole it? Well, that's a whole other story, and it'll require a whole other mug of ale to tell......"

Spoiler

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2 Acts: Kalamar will create his first Artifact, Ca'Thur, Insanity Edge, the Soul Bleeder. It is a mutating weapon that changes appearance as often as he does.

The blade is a horrid and terrible artifact, with each swing it leaves a light trail of pure anarchy, a swathe of logic and reason that is merely erased. Were a mortal to ever wield it or be struck by it, they would find themselves a gibbering mess of pure insanity. A stark raving lunatic. This miasma of wrongness permeates farther then just the blade itself, as those of rigid self discipline or high mental faculties will find themselves nasueated and light headed just by being near the blade, its very presence enough to slowly unravel the minds of the unwilling. To a lesser extent, prolonged sight of the blade has been known to cause irritation aswell, and if one were to stare at it for an extended period of time they might aswell stare at the sun for what good it will do them. Some are driven blind, much like the sun would, while others are plagued with constant visions of the blade impaling them eternally and destroying them in ever new ways.

Aside from its psychological capabilities, the Blade also wields physical power. Anything it touches is bound to change. Silver armor is changed to soft gold, or grass, and even bedrock. Water is changed to honey or acid or fire. Flesh is corrupted, turned Demonic in appearance, and made into yet stranger things still. Most of the transformations are for the worse, but the blade will occasionally get bored or take a fancy in something and make it "better". Of course, what constitutes "Better" is up to the whim of the blade, and it may include being turned into a chicken and being rejuvenated to a younger age as "Better" on the same day. It is not only limited to simple blade to blade combat, as it is capable of extreme pyrotechnics, and can be used as a focal point for a storm of chaos. Bolts of chaotic energy soaring off of its blade is a common sight in battle, and is often accompanied by the terrified screams of those who are hit.

The hilt and scabbard of the blade are made of Replicant pincer and anttenae respectively, and are a stark contrast to the rest of it. While the blade permeates a warm, ever changing, and vitrolic miasma the hilt and scabbard are cold and clean. An unchanging and unflinching aspect of the blade, incredibly durable, and permeating its own lesser aura of cold contempt. In a way they both represent Kalamar. The hot blooded, passionate, whimsical madman, and the cold, heartless, self centered bastard. It is in this way that Kalamar keeps a semblance of balance in a turmoiling sea of emotions and destruction.

"Ca'Thur is Kalamar, and Ca'Thur means me."

Stats: +2 Attack.