RE: The Grand OC SII: The Re-OCening: Week 14: HEAVEN!
07-01-2016, 10:26 AM
Username: Agenholy
Name: Harriet Hicks
Gender: Female
Species: Heathen
Text Color: I am flesh and I am bone
Description: "Rise up!" Come the voices of the demagogue in her wake. They break down the temples, tear down the statues and smash in the altars. In her wake, religion dies.
They speak in hushed words of the Heathen, who trundles across the towns and cities in her forge-caravan, who cradles a great forge hammer in her large hands like a man would hold a chisel, or a sword. They speak of her dark hair, short and raven-black, and of her burning brown eyes, which looked upon gods and saw only pretension.
Some storytellers describe her figure as lavish, bountiful and slender. They lie.
Some storytellers weave the story of how she was merciful to their god, and how she spared their lives. They, too, lie.
Some storytellers stick to the truth, and tell the one story they really know:
Items/Abilities: Ting. Ting.
The hammer struck the anvil true, and the icon borne between them stood no chance. Already heated to the point of softness, the blow wiped the intricate carvings away and reduced the cross to its base metal, which oozed, molten, out from under the red-hot hammer blow.
The hammer was not unholy - the demons of the Pit were still gods, oppositional as they may be - may have been. Like the Heathen herself, it simply ignored religion: the best-blessed wards were worthless in its wake. And when the hammer, red-hot from her forge coals, smashed through temple wall and gilded altar and brightly-shining spell alike...
They say it was a sight to see.
Biography: Like glitter and gold.
Harriet straightened up, and watched droplets of silver fall, one by one, into a circular pool around the anvil. They hissed as they struck the unsanctified water below, and cooled fast into little round bearings. With a large hand she mopped the sweat from her brow, and wiped it on her leather overalls.
"HEATHEN!"
The voice boomed from outside the caravan, the unmistakeable voice of a god. Behind it was the murmur of a thousand followers, all ready to fight with all the power a god could bestow upon them. The clanking of spears and axes spoke their intent clear and true.
Quietly, Harriet cracked two eggs into a frying pan, and let it rest on the forge. "Detheos," she shouted out the window, "If you'd like to talk to me now, you'll have to face me on my terms, on my turf."
"THIS IS MY TURF, HEATHEN! YOU HAVE DESPOILED ENOUGH OF MY TEMPLES, KILLED ENOUGH OF MY PRIESTS! WE END THIS NOW!"
She stuck her head out the caravan door, and stared Detheos in the godly eyes. "Do you forfeit your right to trial in your heaven, under your laws?" She looked the god up and down, all ten feet of rippling muscle and shining chains and giant golden axes, the whole bit. Still, underneath the great god seemed... weedy?
"YES! YOU CANNOT FIGHT US ALL OFF, AND I WILL HAVE YOU SACRIFICED IN MY NAME!"
"Are these all the followers you could find?" She spared a glance for the suddenly uncertain crowd.
"THEY SEEK REVENGE, FOR YOUR ACTIONS HAVE BROUGHT A GREAT FAMINE! THEIR FAMILIES STARVE, FOR YOU HAVE CUT SHORT OUR AGE OF PROSPERITY!"
"Your prosperity came at a cost." Harriet began, stepping fully out into the overcast day. In one hand she held the forge-hammer like a toy, and she towered over the tallest man. "It was you who sucked the land dry of its life, bringing it to blossom out of season. Do not presume to blame your crimes on me."
"SHE LIES! MY POWER IS INFINITE!"
Stepping closer to the god, Harriet twirled the hammer in her hands. "Your power cannot touch me, and so it falls to me to bring judgement."
"TAKE HER," Detheos sputtered, but at that point Harriet threw the hammer, and his followers' resolve broke. Which was probably fair, considering that she'd just turned their god's head into a pile of steaming mush.
Name: Harriet Hicks
Gender: Female
Species: Heathen
Text Color: I am flesh and I am bone
Description: "Rise up!" Come the voices of the demagogue in her wake. They break down the temples, tear down the statues and smash in the altars. In her wake, religion dies.
They speak in hushed words of the Heathen, who trundles across the towns and cities in her forge-caravan, who cradles a great forge hammer in her large hands like a man would hold a chisel, or a sword. They speak of her dark hair, short and raven-black, and of her burning brown eyes, which looked upon gods and saw only pretension.
Some storytellers describe her figure as lavish, bountiful and slender. They lie.
Some storytellers weave the story of how she was merciful to their god, and how she spared their lives. They, too, lie.
Some storytellers stick to the truth, and tell the one story they really know:
Items/Abilities: Ting. Ting.
The hammer struck the anvil true, and the icon borne between them stood no chance. Already heated to the point of softness, the blow wiped the intricate carvings away and reduced the cross to its base metal, which oozed, molten, out from under the red-hot hammer blow.
The hammer was not unholy - the demons of the Pit were still gods, oppositional as they may be - may have been. Like the Heathen herself, it simply ignored religion: the best-blessed wards were worthless in its wake. And when the hammer, red-hot from her forge coals, smashed through temple wall and gilded altar and brightly-shining spell alike...
They say it was a sight to see.
Biography: Like glitter and gold.
Harriet straightened up, and watched droplets of silver fall, one by one, into a circular pool around the anvil. They hissed as they struck the unsanctified water below, and cooled fast into little round bearings. With a large hand she mopped the sweat from her brow, and wiped it on her leather overalls.
"HEATHEN!"
The voice boomed from outside the caravan, the unmistakeable voice of a god. Behind it was the murmur of a thousand followers, all ready to fight with all the power a god could bestow upon them. The clanking of spears and axes spoke their intent clear and true.
Quietly, Harriet cracked two eggs into a frying pan, and let it rest on the forge. "Detheos," she shouted out the window, "If you'd like to talk to me now, you'll have to face me on my terms, on my turf."
"THIS IS MY TURF, HEATHEN! YOU HAVE DESPOILED ENOUGH OF MY TEMPLES, KILLED ENOUGH OF MY PRIESTS! WE END THIS NOW!"
She stuck her head out the caravan door, and stared Detheos in the godly eyes. "Do you forfeit your right to trial in your heaven, under your laws?" She looked the god up and down, all ten feet of rippling muscle and shining chains and giant golden axes, the whole bit. Still, underneath the great god seemed... weedy?
"YES! YOU CANNOT FIGHT US ALL OFF, AND I WILL HAVE YOU SACRIFICED IN MY NAME!"
"Are these all the followers you could find?" She spared a glance for the suddenly uncertain crowd.
"THEY SEEK REVENGE, FOR YOUR ACTIONS HAVE BROUGHT A GREAT FAMINE! THEIR FAMILIES STARVE, FOR YOU HAVE CUT SHORT OUR AGE OF PROSPERITY!"
"Your prosperity came at a cost." Harriet began, stepping fully out into the overcast day. In one hand she held the forge-hammer like a toy, and she towered over the tallest man. "It was you who sucked the land dry of its life, bringing it to blossom out of season. Do not presume to blame your crimes on me."
"SHE LIES! MY POWER IS INFINITE!"
Stepping closer to the god, Harriet twirled the hammer in her hands. "Your power cannot touch me, and so it falls to me to bring judgement."
"TAKE HER," Detheos sputtered, but at that point Harriet threw the hammer, and his followers' resolve broke. Which was probably fair, considering that she'd just turned their god's head into a pile of steaming mush.
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime