cthoniaverse - Tumblr blog

[cthoniaverse]

I think to make sense of how Marika feels about her Omen twins, you need to follow a string of:

1/ how bad is Marika’s PTSD?

2/ how bad are people in the Lands Between in general feel about the Hornsent? The Hornsent is very much leading a whole empire that is hunting down anyone they deem inferior, even their own brethren. the fanbase tend to forget that people of Land of Shadow and Lands Between have every reason to already feel grievance towards the Hornsent royalty, even without Marika’s influence.

They were the Golden Order before Golder Order was even a thing (and they want that, btw, the Greatsword of Damnation skill description very much pointed out that the Hornsent royalty wanted to build their own Golden Order under the banner of the Spiraltree, they are just pissed as hell Marika wrenched that divinity from them and made it under the Erdtree instead).

And Marika, even as a God, was still just one person, with an ailing son at the beginning. If she wanted to consolidate power, she had to unite other people under a common cause. And I do think she promised them a world abundance of healing blessing and no death, and no one will suffer under the Hornsent anymore (sounds awfully familiar, isn't it. except that Marika was always gunning for revenge as well). Omens being shunned that badly can’t be just because of Golden Order propaganda, it’s also because people in fact did suffer under the Hornsent and still remember it too.

3/ Messmer, who is fanatical to the point of even though he admits the Tarnished has Marika’s sanction, he will still hunt them down because he considers them lightless / unworthy, who was very much around when the Omen twins were born, why did he do nothing about it?

I’m pretty sure he has no qualm about killing babies, he doesn’t gaf about his siblings chasing something doomed to fail, he very much goes extra miles to torture any Hornsent on his way. So who protected the twins from him? Who hid them from him?

1 + 2 + 3 = you have a Marika who still very much suffered PTSD from what her people went through, she thought she had escaped, she thought she had managed to build a world where everyone was free from Hornsent’s cruelty and always bathed in gentle ray of healing - something the minor erdtree in her village could never do, because there was no one there to heal. But now she gave birth to … Omens?

It’s a sign that whatever the Hornsent once did to her, it’s left a taint forever inside her (yes i very much believed she was under the Hornsent capture before she managed to run away, either via the Mimic Veil or other means). That she never really escaped that cold dark gaol. And for all of his belief in her sanctity, I think Messmer knew that too, that it’s a wound he could never heal, and now all he could do was to make sure she wouldn’t be tainted further.

And after distress, came fear. Fear for the Omen twins, even though she should hate them, she still loved them, she couldn’t help it. She carried them for months and had loved them all that time. That wouldn’t stop even when they triggered all of her trauma at once.

I think it should be noted that in the DLC there is an item that is the same as Omen Bairn item in the base game, which points out that Omen (or in their case, Hornsent) babies with overgrown horns meet a frightfully early demise. Morgott and Mogh both have overgrown horns. But they are alive! They are ! Very much alive! And grow into adulthood!

Who healed them? Who kept them alive? Who else but the woman who used to make several blessing flasks for her cursed firstborn, whose innate power is healing, right?

Before the Omen twins, Omen babies had their horns excised, causing them to perish, but once there are ones born into royal linage, exile is on the table? and again, they have overgrown horns, and still live to adulthood. if they were left to rot in prison, they would have already died.

Marika built a world with a promise that the cruel shadow the Hornsent cast would never befall there, but now… she gave birth for two of them. Her position as a God Queen was of no use if her people clamored for the twins’ death, her duty to them will always outweigh her personal feelings. But she sure as hell would not let her sons die, either.

They weren't exiled to faraway land, they were kept under the capital, presumably so Marika could visit and heal them if their horns caused them pain, the shackles were made so they wouldn't wander up above and ran into civilians that pretty much would call on the Omenkillers to go after them. it was a cruel existence, yes, but it's all she could do for them. she tried her best out of love.

That is why Godfrey never held it against her, even when it's apparent he loves Morgott (as he cradles his son's body gently in the boss cutscene). Godfrey knew she had done everything she could.

All of that above answers this 4th question: why Morgott was accepted as Lord of Leyndell, even went so far as having command over a whole army of the Night's Cavalry?

In the time of unrest, Omens were welcomed in the army, but they were distrusted, even their weapons have an enchantment on it so it could be taken back if they tried something funny.

But Morgott was trusted to command a whole army and held the walls of Leyndell for that long?

The only way I could rationalize that is after she was forced to separate from Messmer, Marika brought both Morgott and Mohg back to live with other demigods. A big part of the Erdtree's power force was in Messmer's hand, now that he was not there anymore, I imagine people would become more accepting of letting Omens join their rank. And because Messmer was not there, the twins would actually not have to deal with him. In a twisted way, when Marika lost her beloved firstborn, she gained the other two back.

Even though they weren't officially recognized as her child, but more as warriors serving in Leyndell army, Morgott proved himself with his tactical mind and combat prowess (while Mogh used the resources brought by his new position to secretly started funding his blood cult, and this is how I think he met Miquella and all the stuffs in that part of the lore happened. Like you can't convince me he built that whole palace and had all that fancy clothes without money or resources taken from somewhere else).

Then Godwyn died, and Morgott witnessed everything thereafter. and the rest of the story, we knew how it played out.

So yeah, that's my take on the timeline and story of the Omen twins. I know it doesn't have a strong official description backup as my theory on Messmer, but I feel like this makes sense with all of my other interpretation, and if you agree with those, they are what actually back up this one.

If I draw Morgott in the future, it'll also be based on this premise.

[cthoniaverse]

Cthonia

The realms of Cthonia are all located on various layers of the dead cosmic entity, Cthonia. All of the planes tied together in this cosmology are just different parts of their Eldritch corpse that have become habitable parts of reality.

Cthonia was a being of endless hunger, unfortunately born into an empty universe needing souls to survive, but was active long, long before any such thing existed.

So it starved to death, alone in a void.

It is thought that Cthonia’s endless hunger for souls persisting long after it’s death is what caused them to come into existence in the first place, drawn from the ether or other realities.

The universe was born from an instinctual hunger, a greed, a want, a need. A need for others, for company, for food, for prey, for safety, for a full belly, for dominance. Call it hunger, call it greed, call it lust, call it what you like. It still permeates the realms to this day, and some say it has been the driving force behind every major historical event in recorded time.

The origins of the world have been discovered by astronomers through observing messages and visions from the stars, and many scholars work to study this and the nature of reality. Chief among them the Goddess of Knowledge, Sin and her knights.

This has lead to some turns of phrase and sayings. Lava/magma is referred to as “blood of the earth,” or “earth’s blood.”

The Layers/Planes

Outer Layer- where most mortal races live, vast seemingly endless oceans with scattered continents

Sanguine Layer- “layer of blood,” home to demons, beings born of desires. Hot and running with “earth’s blood,” this is a place of deals and desires, blood and iron.

Sominal Layer- “layer of dreams and magic,” home to fey creatures, magical beings who were originally from the Outer Layer but settled here to sequester themselves. Elves typically reside here, separated by seasons into four kinds. Time moves slowly here. This realm is made of magic, the leaking mindstuff of a dead god.

Famine Layer- “layer of hunger,” an endless desert of nothingness locked in eternal night with scattered dead trees. A kind of limbo for which I’ve yet to come up with a purpose.

More layers of reality to be added as I come up with fun ideas.

[cthoniaverse]

Rise and Fall

I am an arrow loosed from a bow.

Bursting out from the line of evergreen trees into the snow covered open fields.

Last I was here, the tree line wasn’t this far back. Now as I run I see stumps scattered around what was once thick woodland, discarded and left to rot. I land silently down amongst the snowflakes, before falling into rapid footsteps muffled by the heavy snowfall. I gain speed. I leap into the air again.

My alabaster skin is numb to the icy wind, protected by silvery armor that blends in with the dull clouds overhead. Red eyes peer through the light snowfall, searching the horizon for light. For warmth. I fall back down to the snow-laden earth before leaping back up, gazing across the horizon again.

It’s been a little bit, maybe fifty years. I don’t recall exactly where this one is.

Far behind me in the forest a winter storm follows, a wall of white fury stretching from the earth to the heavens that has not yet reached the tree line.

I rise, I fall. I rise, and fall again.

Rise, fall, rise… light?

Westward, going with the clouds and the wind. My lady’s favor is with me.

I begin my sprint towards the warmth in the distance, graceful as a winter’s breeze. My footsteps are muffled by the heavy snow, and I stay low to the ground as I get closer and closer to the light source. Closer to their warmth.

They will not see me until it is too late. They never do. Far behind, the snowstorm follows me.

Walls, heavy stone, old and tall.

Not tall enough.

I prepare myself. Sword in my right hand, dagger in my left hand.

I rise, I fall.

I sense nearby warmth as I land. I turn and spot the source. Human, male, and surprised. Fire stick in hand, spear, and armor. He tries to move. Not fast enough. My sword hand swipes across his neck. Human chain mail is brittle. A spurt of blood and he falls dead, his body now cold.

My footsteps are like snowfall across the ramparts. Far behind me the snowstorm crosses the white covered fields. An approaching wave of wind and frost.

Quickly and quietly I approach the rampart tower. Inside is another human taking shelter from the biting wind. A male, fire stick, bow, and quiver full of arrows. He’s lazy. My sword arm goes across his neck. Brittle mail again. Another spurt of blood, he falls dead, cold.

There’s a noise upstairs, a creak in the floorboards. Another human peeks down the staircase. Female, sword and armor. Slow, clumsy, and scared. My dagger pierces through her boot and she’s stuck on the staircase. My sword arm slides across her belly and soon her throat. Brittle armor. Blood, dead, cold.

The view from the tower shows me the breadth of the small settlement. Thatch roofs covered in snow. Braziers lit across the ramparts. Warmth. The castle that looms over it all, my target. I leap from the wall and fall to a snow covered roof. Rise, roof, rise, roof.

The snowstorm grows closer, the flakes are falling more rapidly every second. Heavier and heavier. For a human, it’s getting harder and harder to see through all the white.

The castle rampart approaches in front of me. I leap from the thatch roof of an inn, smoke rising from its chimney to mix with the cold air in a futile attempt to keep out the winter. I reach the top of the wall and find another guard. Human, male, and surprised. My sword swipes across his neck, cutting his brittle armor. Blood, dead, cold.

There’s a second human. This one is faster, prepared, with a spear. It’s a panicked jab, the snowfall is too thick, and his stance is weak. There is fear in his movements, uncertainty in his eyes. It all speaks to his inexperience. My sword meets his spear, brittle human metal shatters against the cold. I close the distance before he can take another breath. My dagger slices across his neck. Brittle mail. Blood, cold, dead.

The winter storm has arrived.

More humans approach me on the stone rampart, trying in vain to yell over the thick snow and wailing wind. An arrow flies by me, sailing into the night. More arrows follow. More yelling.

I am a leaf falling in the wind. Their arrows are too slow as I weave between them, getting closer and closer.

The first human is male, scared, shaking hands holding his bow. Before he can notch another arrow my sword moves across his neck, cutting brittle mail. Blood, cold, dead. The second human is female, also scared, spear in hand. She is better trained, knows to keep her distance. A third human, male, with another spear, comes to her aid.

“Víla! Snow bitch!” he shouts, his words muffled by the heavy snowfall.

Words that cost him precious seconds.

His spear surges forward, but I’m already at his side. My sword slides across his thigh, cutting brittle mail. He falls, as does my dagger to his neck. Blood, dead, cold. The second human moves to strike as I kneel over her comrade. Like him, she is too slow. Whether through fear or rage she forgets her training and finds herself over extended. I kick her spear to the side. The guard’s grip is not strong enough, she stumbles trying to hold on. My dagger hand meets her neck. Brittle mail. Blood, dead, cold.

More arrows fly into the winter night. Their numb fingers can’t aim well. The snowstorm has engulfed the settlement. I step back from the two bodies and am shrouded by the flurry. I sense their warmth ahead of me amongst the falling cold.

I leap upward into the whiteout, the occasional blindly fired arrow zipping through the dense snowfall their only attempt at defense. Before they know it I am just another snowflake descending upon them. Dagger to the back of the neck. Blood, dead, cold. The other guard can’t even hear as their comrade falls. Unaware as my sword arm stabs at the gap in their armor, right by their armpit. Blood, dead, cold.

The castle doors stand before me. The heavy snowfall means it will be some time before the bodies are discovered and an alarm is raised.

High above sits a balcony, with a lazily propped open door leaking warmth from inside. Too high for a human to reach.

I am not human, I am the wind.

I rise. I fall. Silent as the snowfall.

Peeking inside, I see a raging fire, a bearskin rug, and two figures. One is my target. Corpulent, naked except for a luxurious fur cloak. Hairy. Grease dribbles down his chin into a well-kept beard as a similarly disrobed maiden holds a large drumstick for him to eat in one hand and a tray of treats in the other. They giggle together as he chews his cud, one hand holding a goblet of wine, the other fondling her behind.

I enter, footsteps silenced by the whistle of the winter storm.

The intimate moment comes crashing to a halt at the loud clatter of the silver tray against the castle’s cobblestone floor. The maiden has spotted my intrusion, but I am not deterred. She scrambles to the messy bed in the corner of the room, covering her naked form, seeking protection from cold and steel beneath the pile of heavy, luxurious furs.

“V-Víla!” she cries, just like the man outside had. Her voice is filled with more fear and less contempt however.

The lord turns, too slowly, too drunk to react on time. Before he is halfway standing my sword is below his chin, resting, ready to puncture his sweet flesh. His goblet falls to the floor, spilling the dark red liquid across the rug. Grease drips from his lips onto my blade, flecks of dark chicken meat still between his teeth. They are the first to see me clearly. My pale skin, glistening in the firelight as the snow that still clings to me melts. My silver hair waves in the draft coming from the open balcony door. My pointed ears twitch at the whimpers my captive makes. My red eyes pierce his with a stare dripping with contempt. “H-how did you… w-w-what do you w-want?” he manages to ask through chattering teeth, the cold of outside rushing in behind me..

I raise my sword, and the plump lord stands with it to prevent the tip from puncturing his gullet. The heavy fur cloak falls as he does, exposing his rotund form in all its avaricious glory. “Duke Elrich Augustine, Lord of Frostwatch.” I say his name like a curse, spitting these words, “I am here on behalf of Morozka, Mother of Frost, Goddess of Winter, Queen of the Unseelie Court.” Speaking their base human tongue feels like filth in my mouth.

His eyes flash in realization. He knows now, what happened to his predecessor, and what happened to the lord before them… and the one before that… and so on, back through the ages to the first human to accept our terms. To the Pact.

Maybe he didn’t think we were real. Old wives tales. Maybe he thought his nobility would protect him. Maybe he thought the vassals of the Emperor were untouchable.

But, the Winter Court fears no man.

He must have thought he was different. Deserving. Righteous.

In theory running Frostwatch is simple. Guard the northern border for the Emperor. Report sightings of the Frostfolk. Enjoy the bountiful woodland valleys. Don’t venture too deep into the mountains. Hunker down in the winter and don’t freeze to death.

Whatever else one does is up to them.

But now he knows. His mind races as the truth comes crashing down. This seat is not a gift. It is an albatross around his neck, a target on his back, a white elephant. He was not named a duke as an honor.

This was a protracted execution.

The man he swore fealty to knew this day would come. That his greed and arrogance would grow too great. Like many had before him.

We give them a chance. We leave them alone, to see if they can obey the rules of engagement. To respect the forest. To honor their quarries. To exist in harmony with the natural order. But they always violate the Pact.

They take from the forest with disregard for balance. They cut too much. They hunt too many beasts. Travel too deep, to places not meant for man. When the natural order is disturbed, a reaction is warranted.

It's only natural.

I almost feel sorry for them, they can’t seem to help themselves. They crave the excess. They hunger for the riches of the land, and claim them by some divine right.

They grow fat. Happy. Plentiful. Indulgent. Complacent.

Deer without wolves.

So, they must be culled.

“You overstep.” I finish, and flick my wrist.

His throat opens with a thin red line. His grubby hands try to hold back the flow of blood, but it is too late. He falls to the ground, gurgling, with a solid thud, his blood mixing with the spilled wine.

Blood, dead, cold, and he joins his soldiers. The maiden cowers beneath the furs on the bed. I pay her no heed.

I walk to the balcony, step onto the railing, and walk forward into the white abyss.

I fall.

[cthoniaverse]

The Ascended

Those who have achieved divinity and ascended to godhood. These beings are effectively immortal, they are ageless but can be killed. However many have measures in place to prevent this being a simple endeavor.

To become a god one needs to pursue one of the several paths outlined below and obtain a Crown. When one manifests, takes, or forges a Crown, they receive a new divine epithet seemingly bestowed by the fabric of the universe or Cthonia.

Methods of Ascension

Cultivation: A method of extending one’s lifespan through practice of esoteric mystical and martial arts. Many wizards and battle-sages are on this path. It is the most common method pursued, though has the smallest success rate due to the sheer amount of time needed to ascend this way. The objective of this path is to create a Crown from one’s own life force and establish dominion over some aspect of the world, making it an outward expression of one’s will upon reality.

Deicide: Another way to achieve godhood is to “simply” kill a god. This creates what is known as a Godfall, where the god’s Crown fractures and unleashes their cultivated magic and divine life force. The killer is often able to grab the lion’s share of the power for themselves, however this method is predictably chaotic and so some fragments will disperse far away or end up grabbed by others nearby, intentionally or not. Those who achieve godhood through this method are often slightly weaker than those who do so on their own, but they can grow stronger through killing more gods.

Ritual Sacrifice: It is also possible to craft a Crown by using the life energy of others as fuel, though the numbers required are massive. These rituals are outlined in arcane Tomes of Sacrifice that are often locked away within vaults by powerful sorcerers or gods, or found deep within ancient temples and ruins. They seem to fade in and out of existence and only work for those “destined” to use them, outlining a specific path for the individual that opens them. Some believe these tomes are created by the dead entity whose corpse makes up the world.

[cthoniaverse]

great warrior of creche k'liir and the doomed drow dilf she found on the wilderness

[cthoniaverse]

Siobhan “Shiv” Dagdammach

Artwork for Shiv and Torc done by @nathanaelwhale who can be found here on Tumblr and on his Instagram.

This is my “first draft” of my main character, Shiv, for my writing/world building project.

Born to two Kyolander wanderers in the Ring City of Crucible, Shiv is a short tempered young woman who works for the Dowser’s Guild. She lives with her father, Finvara a mushroom farmer and retired adventurer, just outside of the city proper.

Her work involves finding, investigating, and fixing magical anomalies around the city, often as a result of misuse of magic or negligent magical practice. Her innate magical ability allows her to create brambles, which prove surprisingly useful in a variety of situations from imparting knowledge on the local soil/environment to offense and defense using her thorns.

She learned basic magical principles by attending Crucible’s (only) mage’s college, Grimlock’s Arcane University, before graduating and finding work with the Dowsers. The daughter of two seasoned adventurers, she is also well versed in using her innate magical energy to make herself tougher, stronger, and faster than a typical human.

Her hobbies include drinking at the local pub, pipe grass, working out, reading adventure stories, and gardening.

She loves and is very close to her father, but can be embarrassed by him and his behavior. She maintains a similar relationship with his familiar, a large mountain boar named Torc. She does not like to talk about her mother, who she hasn’t seen in her memory.

In her own words Shiv is “not good at making friends,” but has some drinking buddies from her days at GAU she meets up with every now and then.

Shiv is not pleased with the state of the city, she feels more could be done to help the average citizen, and that a lot of the worst aspects of Crucible are, intentionally or not, caused by the nobility and their disregard for others. The chip she seems to carry on her shoulder is born out of a dissatisfaction with the state of the world, and an insistence that things could be better, or at least more fair, for more folk. Unsurprisingly she has a disdain for the rich, and even more for those born into it.

Siobhan is a small moving part in a much larger world I am creating. While I have fun fleshing out the realm of Cthonia, the central story set here is about Shiv, her life being thrown into disarray, and the choices she makes afterwards.

Stick around if you enjoy text blurbs and occasional artwork for worldbuilding/writing projects!

[cthoniaverse]

Fantasy races are an uncomfortable concept, because they present a world that literally works the way racists think that it works. The attempts to mitigate this problem often fail to address the core concern, merely making the idea more palatable.

A big example is trying to correct by changing the language from "races" to "species." This attempt fails for two reasons:

1) Exactly! Racists think that people of other races are a different species. That's the foundation of "race science," phrenology, all of it.

2) Are demihumans different species, though? Like, the interactions between elves and dwarves don't resemble the interactions between different species in our world. They don't act like snakes and lemurs, or whales and krill, or even cats and dogs. More often we've got different groups of people, who may speak different languages and have different cultural practices, engaging in diplomacy or war and struggling to coexist. In practice, they are treated as nations: ethnicities. Except they're ethnicities who are biologically distinct enough to have objective differences in ability.

This is something that puts me on edge in Mass Effect, otherwise one of my favorite games. True, the game ultimately lands on condemning the genophage, and it's not subtle about that. I mean just look at the name... But it's still considered debatable, morally grey, and Mordin Solus remains one of the most charming and enduring heroes of the series. The setting has bent over backwards to make every racist stereotype and talking point as legitimate as possible. In this setting, it is objectively true, scientifically proven that it is in the DNA of Krogans to naturally be violent, warmongering killing machines whose explosively rapid breeding poses an existential threat to the galaxy. That in turn is meant to make us think that maybe forced sterilization is something worth considering. It's hard to ignore the parallels to real life racist propaganda. I don't think it's malicious, just ungrounded and thoughtless; the result of creators to whom these ideals are abstract thought experiments, rather than reflections of real history.

Another big example is Dark Elves. They try to make it okay, to mitigate the message by fleshing them out as characters, by scapegoating an abusive deity rather than an ingrained nature, by erasing the monster manual description that reads "Always Chaotic Evil," by trending skin tone away from black and towards purple, or gray, even pale white. But none of it really changes the core issue, does it? The idea of drow is to equate dark skin with evil, to fetishize that idea, and to tell a story about a subsect of people cast into darkness as a result of sin in a direct parallel to racist Christian beliefs about dark skin being a curse or punishment from God.

So, do I think we need to cancel Mass Effect and stop playing D&D or telling stories about drow? No, not really. I mean... I do all these things. Truth is, I don't have an actionable solution, for myself or anyone. But the dynamic is clearly present and worth describing. And the attempts to challenge it are often insufficient, more about making ourselves feel better about what we're already doing than enacting real change.

[cthoniaverse]

Cthonia

If you’re reading this, welcome to my blog! My name is Kit. Here I post ideas, maps, characters, in-universe articles/documents, and once in a long while *chapters* of my current story/world building project, Cthonia.

Cthonia is a vast realm that has existed for millenia and has still not been entirely mapped.

In actuality Cthonia is made from the corpse of a dead eldritch being and acts as a “trap” for souls in the Great Cosmic Wheel, pulling life forces from the greater ether to inhabit it. This is how life first came to this realm, endless eons ago.

This being, Cthonia, was plagued by endless hunger for souls, yet found itself the sole living creature in its existence. It could not break into any other dimensions or universes to sate its ceaseless hunger.

Thus it simply existed alone in a void until it starved to “death.” Afterwards the dead being’s corpse rotted and warped until it came to resemble what we would call a “world” or “realm.” Oceans, mountains, deserts, plains, forests with more always on the horizon. Is this world truly endless?

Did this being even die? Or did Cthonia simply “evolve” into a new state that would allow it to satisfy its need?

Whatever the case it is no longer “active” and now countless kingdoms have risen and fallen on its dead body.

Here I will flesh out this world, but the story I’d like to tell has a much smaller focus. A story about a young woman, how her life gets turned upside down, and her quest for revenge against a god.