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[[image:OFest 2006 14.jpg|frame|el duende verde! (Picture by Keiko)]]
 
[[image:OFest 2006 14.jpg|frame|el duende verde! (Picture by Keiko)]]
 
==Info==
 
==Info==
'''Full name''': [[witchdoktor urh div spikesister]]<BR>
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'''Full name''': [[witchdoktor div, div spikesister, div the erratic]]<BR>
'''Race''': [[Goblyn]]<BR>
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'''Race''': [[goblyn]]<BR>
 
'''Realm''': [[Nan Belegorn]]<BR>
 
'''Realm''': [[Nan Belegorn]]<BR>
 
'''Started''': August [[2002]]<BR>
 
'''Started''': August [[2002]]<BR>
'''Weapon of Choice''': Glittering, bloody madness<br>
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'''Weapon of Choice''': glittering, bloody madness<br>
  
 
==History==
 
==History==

Revision as of 14:20, 16 September 2017

el duende verde! (Picture by Keiko)

Contents

Info

Full name: witchdoktor div, div spikesister, div the erratic
Race: goblyn
Realm: Nan Belegorn
Started: August 2002
Weapon of Choice: glittering, bloody madness

History

A name is a powerful, mystical thing no matter its seeming banality, its apocryphal origin, or the thing that has been named. The incomprehensible span of everything suddenly becomes less terrifying once a word is conjured for it: universe. A definition provides limitations--the unknown is brought to light and becomes somehow knowable--or so one hopes there is nothing beyond the illuminated corners of their perceptions. What arrogance, to diminish perfection by trying to master it.

And so our story begins:

A wisp of wind, only visible by the grains of sand it carried, Um whipped and licked frantically about the sides of the great fiery mountain, trying now and again to enter the gaping, smoking chasm at Her peak. The gaseous, smoldering pit spewed forth Her innards with such a fierce guffaw that the weak, whining Um was powerless to penetrate Her. Um bore witness to what She truly was and his terror grew more profound as thoughts of what She might become filled his limited consciousness. He stared into that violent, jeering viscera, the very heart of the world churned in the volcano--a nameless menace alternately birthing and destroying all of creation. So afraid was Um that he could do only one thing to ease his horror in the face of She: he gave her a name.

“Uhr,” whispered that desperate, rasping ghost, now far away over the red sands, to the belching black behemoth--stripping Her forever of true anonymity. The crippled vermin Um took it upon himself to use his word to conquer She--to spread a laughable myth of how he mastered Her and thus earned the right to name Her. How had he mastered Uhr? Um claimed the world still existed because Uhr had not consumed it yet and it would only continue this way if those who heard his story revered him. And so it was.

His deceitful pretension poisoned the ears of creatures far and wide, deluding them into a misguided ease and apathy. Utopian societies thrust up from the humble earth, banal and righteous--never measured against their greatest opposition as they hardly gave it a thought. Foolishly they used Her false name in fairy tales--as if it were heedlessly imagined by some long dead poet who forgot the terror and ecstasy of oblivion--while they used the name of Um to fill the boring, empty spaces of their lives. They even uttered it absent-mindedly in the silence between trivial words. The story of Uhr became a toothless threat, looming far away terrifically over the endless scorched desert, that the time when She stood nameless drifted long from the memories of the world and eventually even from myth.

Nearly everyone forgot the source of all nightmares… nearly.

Few remembered and paid due reverence. In spite of the countless times history collapsed upon itself and subsequently revived, there were those who survived it all. Secretly, on the edge of the light, of thought, of madness--timeless beings floated in the liquid shadows of existence. Only they remembered the volcano as She once was--the black humored and bloody mother. She whom they would never name for fear of stealing her majesty, her horror, her awesome and unfathomable power to end--truly end--the world entire. “She”... even that they could barely utter without reticence. Yes, they feared Her greatly, but even more so they loved Her, for she was the dark heart of everything. Her shadow enveloped them, granting them solace from the cruel light of fainter and fairer creatures so quick to engage in busy frivolity yet condemn the profound truth that haunted the corner of every eye. No, these dwellers of the volcano knew better than to try to harness this most authentic and ancient perfection. To name her at all was blasphemy, and so they remembered her as nothing but “She”, living in constant, almost paralyzing awe of her shuddering enormity and forever cursing the false god that dared collar her with that reviled name of “Uhr” as if to tame her. They spent their waking hours contemplating this truth as the rest of the world forgot, filled all the space they could with light and activities and constructs and myths to avoid the darkness.

One unfortunate night, a great light came. It illuminated the vast lands surrounding the volcano known as Uhr, obliterating all darkness in a great, cataclysmic flash--blinding even the gods beyond time for the briefest of moments. All was bright, immaculate white for that infinitesimal point in time save for She--She was a defiant, inky stain on the universe--though the sanctuary of her shadow was torn from her children and they disintegrated instantaneously in that cold, hideous blaze. Not even a silent scream erupted from their ancient gullets, just the soft hiss of ones turned to ash at her great obsidian roots.

And thus faded the only creatures to know and revere Her as She truly was: The nameless terror. The rest of the world, sad and deluded as it was, cleaved to the dishonest title so foolishly draped about Her like garrish cleric’s robes and slept more peacefully that night and for many nights to follow--feeling safer now that all of creation agreed upon a face, a name, a definition for their unknown nightmares. Denial painted for them a very pretty mask, which paled in comparison to the elegant truth of Her incomprehensible and maddening splendor, but their fear lashed that fumbling, clumsy facade to Her and they were comforted. They had suppressed and chained the inconceivable chaos like a rabid beast.

Chaos, however, cannot be resisted for long. Eventually it consumes all and neither leash nor nomenclature can hope to secure it. She abides no master. She is insatiable. She will always find a way to create, consume, and destroy… and so She birthed just one more child in this life from her molten, undulating womb: a daughter with skin slick and dark as a cypress needle to hide her in the blackest of forests on the fringes of the idiot heathens. A goblyn formed in the core of the world, a mortal avatar of the tempestuous, hilarious, blood-thirsty mother made to undo any and all things between her and the light.

The child emerged fully grown and dripping with fire--thrust from the inferno in one last ecstatic eruption. Her eyes were wide and wild and her form fertile--a verdant embodiment of the shifting earth. Waves of frenetic anger exuded a simmering heat from her skin as if her blood was boiling beneath the surface. Broad, shiny teeth threatened both a grim joke and a vicious bite.

She was revelry and death. War without strategy but plenty of banners. Violence and vice. She was a monster of the most unrefined form. Her madness had neither method nor motivation, just the raw, splendid hunger. As she descended the trembling slope of her mother, she looked upon the bleak horizon with maniacal glee.

Then she tripped, looked around to see if there was anyone around to notice (which, of course, no one was), and continued on her wretched way.

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