#technically the word she is named by is 'evlogia' but it's pronounced with a very soft 'g' that sounds more like a y

[worshippedraindrop]

Character Creation. . .

"Start by imagining a place in the distant past. . . This is where your worship will begin to flourish."

Like I said in my campaign notes post, I wanna set this on an island that's kind of inspired by Neverland -- which means the people here are also inspired by Neverland (and I suppose, to some extent, the Lost Boys and also the pirate presence.) This island should be thriving -- it's in a tropical sea during a time when pollution hadn't wracked the skies and the wild spaces thrived. But it does not thrive; the seas here are dark and empty. No one would choose to live here, unless they had no where else to go.

And the people arriving have no where else to go. They are outlaws, hunted and haunted by their regrets, by their mistakes and by the ways they were broken before they ever had a choice in the matter.

And this island that no one would choose is the perfect place to hide, if you are a nobody.

"Then think about how your god came to be. . . "

When the runaways first came to the island, there was a drought; they did not mind this, because they had stores from their travels, and because they were a vicious lot who felt no mercy for the merchant ships that would pass by.

But it was a hard life. It was rough, and cold -- a hell the lot of them thought they deserved. And when the rain broke, it was a reminder of something soft within them, something peaceful. Calm rippled through them.

"Even hell on earth has to abate itself sometimes," they murmured to themselves, "Even the harshest life has it's peaceful days."

Even going about their work, the cool dampness was a blessing more than a burden.

It was this peace that made me open my eyes; a sudden breaking of misery. A sudden gratitude for the small blessings of life.

And that's how they called me -- Evloyia. The one who said it first -- who left out flowers for me -- said it was greek. He was a gentle man, compared to the others, full of a softness to his words and his eyes that belied what they all did when they went out to sea. The others listened to him, even if they did not respect him, because it was always so sad to see him falter in disappointment if you did not hear him out.

"I do not mind asking for another blessing in life," he said; "I do not mind asking for a little peace. Lord knows there is enough pain in this life."

And so I calm people down; I soften their aches -- I give them a little peace.

The man who first gave me flowers is called Aire; he is always following after another man, Winslow, like a puppy -- so much so that the other men sometimes seem to think it's love. Perhaps it is, but Winslow is a hard man to love -- cold and unforgiving, with his eyes perpetually fixed on the horizon, and he does not like me much. When the other men speak of me, he drinks from his bottle and scoffs, and I think that breaks Aire's heart a little bit inside.

There is someone else like me on this island, though I have only caught glimpses of them. They appear sometimes as a man and sometimes as a bird and for all the peace I bring, I can not stop them from instigating things -- causing fights among the men, or bad luck or nightmares. They call themself Hael, but that's all I know.

There are things I can do -- I can soothe pain, and I can summon rain. I can numb a person like drink, making them forget their troubles and themselves.

There are things Aire has given me -- a crown of flowers that I won't let wither; a small shrine decorated with shells and a rustic set of reed pipes (I don't know how to play them.)

And there are stories the men whisper among themselves. How Aire set out a dinner for me, and when I ate it they argued about whether there were animals on the island to have done it or whether those animals could have gotten it so fast. I shushed them, and they dropped it, but every now and then . . .

How Winslow was raging one day -- rampaging like a demon -- until the scent of rain picked up, and then he stood out as it misted, tilting his face to the sky, and whatever pain had been clouding his eyes seemed to vanish when he returned to their small camp on the beach.

How late at night, they'll hear music from my shrine even though no one is there, and they'll go to Aire and Aire will tell them silly little stories about nymphs and faeries.

And there is someone who sometimes comes to the island from the mainland, on days when I feel sleepy and lethargic. So far, he has not met the other men; they pass by each other by hair's breadth, and I try to keep it that way. But I think he senses trouble, or he senses me because he will speak to me. He calls himself Tochtli, and he seems to think the island is cursed.

I do not know why he insists on investigating it, but he draws in the sand when he wants me to come to him -- a palm leaf with a large globe of water clinging to it's fringes. He is seeking something, and believes I will keep him safe.