Godville

I was recently rummaging through the Forums and found the GOD RP section. So here goes.

Character Sheet :
link

I'll be expanding the Lore by taking the perspective of a *SOON* to be follower of this god

Backstory :
VICTORS

The storm rolls atop the stark mare. A canopy of thunders and gale. Towering waters dwarfs the leviathans that lurks between. When the stars aligned, the celestials rains their wrath upon this feeble land. No vessel would dare challenge this kinds of wind. Only the foolhardy and desperate could see themselves sailing amongst these waves. Ones such as the El Rey, the King. Three stories high, this thing could put the coast-watching citadels to shame. And that is exactly his purpose, a bastion, in the midst of the salt. With the length that could muster a leviathan, from it’s tail to it’s head, he would strike fear into the weak hearts of those unsavory seamen. Roughly, two hundreds cannons lined it’s wooden face. A testament of survival, the countless stories of conquest carved into it’s side. A shelter and a formidable ally for the crew within. He himself, The King, ornates the ship’s figurehead. A champion clad in golden armament, shield at hand, spear facing head strong. He would cut through anyone who opposes his vision, like the icy waves splitting the jagged rocks on the shores. You couldn’t tell the tales of legends and conquest without ever speaking of this gargantua…. but, this is no story of victors. Not anymore,

Masts and sails floats to the black depth. Bodies as cold as the sea around them, thrown aside as if theyre wet matchsticks. Tonnes of barrels and crates, become provision for the starving predators. You might be asking yourselves, how could the champion of survival, ever tastes the frozen ocean floor? I could give you the simplest of answer : the idiots challenges the heavens, spat in their eye by venturing the high winds. A fate befitting of those who disrespect their opponent. But that would be too easy.. the truth is, it lies within that boy, clinging to a pillar. Once trusted with the weight of the halls of the giant, now carries the last of this lad’s soul.

FRACTURES
Whispers heard, “Hamuera. Samuel” “A black tall fountain flows in a white wide sea.” He knew not to arouse the howling gale, or he would’ve been tossed around by it’s rage. “Hamuera. Samuel” “A tall black fountain flows in a white wide sea.” “Hamuera.” “Samuel.” “Tall black fountain flows.” “A wide white sea.” , he chants those words as if it’s a lucky charm. “Hamuera.” “Samuel?” “A tall white fountain.” “Flowing black sea.” , he doesn’t know why he mutters those words, but it is the only thing that stopping him from going insane. But his memories are failling him, “Hamuera.” “Sa-” “Samuel, a wide white fountain” “Flows in the tall black sea.” , he shakes his head. “No. No I want to remember.” “I need to remember.” “Samuel. A tall white sea – NO!”
His guts caught his tounge when he sees this figure in the brackish waves. A broken reflection of a broken man. The exotic mold of an islander, a warrior of his tribesmen, fearless champions of the sea. Or atleast, what was of him. The mark of a slave, seared into his right temple, never to fade or to be hidden, but for all to see. Curly strands went loose from their braids. The knots and knits so elegant, a sweet lie that hides a much bitter meaning. Scalp shaven, becoming the house for the mark, what left of his locks were tied together, braided into a bun. Every intricate knots screams : I AM A SLAVE. I AM NO MORE HUMAN. I AM A CASTAWAY.

P.S : On indefinite hiatus.