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Nefatarus, God of Conflict, Forgotten [RG God Concept]
Note: I'm a bad writer. Forgive me.
http://mtgcardsmith.com/view/nefatarus-god-of-conflict
Also a bad artist. You don't have to forgive that part.
To be a God, are there even consequences?
To be a starfield among Nyx, is there pain?
Long before inscriptions, tellings of tales of the great mythical Gods that resided over Theros itself, there were fifteen gods.
Heliod, God of the Sun. Thassa, God of the Sea. Erebos, God of the Dead. Purphoros, God of the Forge. Nylea, God of the Hunt.
These were the most revered, beloved Gods among the mortals on this world.
The rest, minor gods, shared attributes between few and many with them. For what would be countless years, all lost among ancient dead, there will be fourteen of these Gods in total.
Nefatarus, God of Conflict, said to be born of the first and oldest tree on Theros to be burned between a conflict of Gods so petty, they ignored such power forming. The tree never extinguished, and eventually grew with flame riding among its great branches. Many revered this wondrous form and praised it, only to slowly grow from generation to generation into what would become a God itself.
The wood splintered, bark shed and burnt as it fell to the ground. Large, thick branches, with fires riding from the end to the body spread and splintered, forming a thick arm. Legs, encased in stars and shadow, stayed rooted and planted to the ground. Shrubs formed a long, hanging piece cloaked in more lights of the night sky from the face of this now living, Godly, form. Eyes became cloaked in darkness, smaller branches within the shrubbery twisted and formed small horns, one so engulfed in power it twisted and snapped from its base.
Standing over its worshipers and loyal mortals, Nefatarus looked below with anger and enragement, for its very soul was forged from these feelings.
Holding his now snapped horn, he gripped it like a sharpened dagger, yet crooked, snapping off another 'horn' among his features and plunging it into the ground. With a booming shout, echoing over mountains, he demaned it to be sacrificed and shaped into a throne to a temple for him. Immediate, these men and women obeyed, crafting a wooden throne in which resembled the curl and origin of his branches and horns themselves.
And what of his disappearance? As the form he took, he was vulnerable. He wished upon all he met, gods alike, hatred and to brawl for a test of might. Eventually, this enragement of his reached Pharika, who had rejected his wish to fight and as he barreled across the lands of Theros towards Pharika, she, with one swift wave of her divine power, poisoned, corrupted him. Slowly, piece by piece, he was shedding this divine power, weakening his will to halt the eternal fires that burned within and on him. The wooden skin of his body was crippled, shattered even. His cries of agony attracted many, but none aided him. Soon, Nefatarus became abandoned.
Over these years of abandon and lack of a divine being to be crowned upon his Throne of the Enraged, he became nothing more than a colossal pile of wood, used to make homes, harvest and even turn to weapons.
As dust gathered, no life had grown on the once great form of Nefatarus, and no one would ever remember him.
http://mtgcardsmith.com/view/nefatarus-god-of-conflict
Also a bad artist. You don't have to forgive that part.
To be a God, are there even consequences?
To be a starfield among Nyx, is there pain?
Long before inscriptions, tellings of tales of the great mythical Gods that resided over Theros itself, there were fifteen gods.
Heliod, God of the Sun. Thassa, God of the Sea. Erebos, God of the Dead. Purphoros, God of the Forge. Nylea, God of the Hunt.
These were the most revered, beloved Gods among the mortals on this world.
The rest, minor gods, shared attributes between few and many with them. For what would be countless years, all lost among ancient dead, there will be fourteen of these Gods in total.
Nefatarus, God of Conflict, said to be born of the first and oldest tree on Theros to be burned between a conflict of Gods so petty, they ignored such power forming. The tree never extinguished, and eventually grew with flame riding among its great branches. Many revered this wondrous form and praised it, only to slowly grow from generation to generation into what would become a God itself.
The wood splintered, bark shed and burnt as it fell to the ground. Large, thick branches, with fires riding from the end to the body spread and splintered, forming a thick arm. Legs, encased in stars and shadow, stayed rooted and planted to the ground. Shrubs formed a long, hanging piece cloaked in more lights of the night sky from the face of this now living, Godly, form. Eyes became cloaked in darkness, smaller branches within the shrubbery twisted and formed small horns, one so engulfed in power it twisted and snapped from its base.
Standing over its worshipers and loyal mortals, Nefatarus looked below with anger and enragement, for its very soul was forged from these feelings.
Holding his now snapped horn, he gripped it like a sharpened dagger, yet crooked, snapping off another 'horn' among his features and plunging it into the ground. With a booming shout, echoing over mountains, he demaned it to be sacrificed and shaped into a throne to a temple for him. Immediate, these men and women obeyed, crafting a wooden throne in which resembled the curl and origin of his branches and horns themselves.
And what of his disappearance? As the form he took, he was vulnerable. He wished upon all he met, gods alike, hatred and to brawl for a test of might. Eventually, this enragement of his reached Pharika, who had rejected his wish to fight and as he barreled across the lands of Theros towards Pharika, she, with one swift wave of her divine power, poisoned, corrupted him. Slowly, piece by piece, he was shedding this divine power, weakening his will to halt the eternal fires that burned within and on him. The wooden skin of his body was crippled, shattered even. His cries of agony attracted many, but none aided him. Soon, Nefatarus became abandoned.
Over these years of abandon and lack of a divine being to be crowned upon his Throne of the Enraged, he became nothing more than a colossal pile of wood, used to make homes, harvest and even turn to weapons.
As dust gathered, no life had grown on the once great form of Nefatarus, and no one would ever remember him.
This discussion has been closed.