[✗] [Origin Lore] The Birth of the Wretch

[Child Neglecter 2265]

 

Spoiler

 

 

Evil, as they say, is not a creature of blood nor birth. No, it is a beast that's brewed, one that's shaped and moulded by the hand of fate. The Wretch of Laria, he was naught but a man like any other. Married with a family, living a simple life as a peasant and a man of the cloth. But oh, how the winds of sorrow howled and the tempest of despair raged within him when tragedy struck. His wife and child, his very heart and soul, snuffed out like candles in the wind. And so, the darkness crept in, the darkness that shrouded his mind and twisted his soul until nothing was left but a husk of his former self. The Wretch of Laria, a shadow of a man, a harbinger of darkness and despair. 

 

In the hearts of even the most devout, sin lies waiting, fueled by the fires of suffering. And what greater agony for a man than to bear witness to the demise of his beloved wife and child, the very reason for his existence? With their passing, his world crumbles, and the man he once was is lost forever. What happened in the mind of the Wretch of Laria during his darkest hour remains a mystery, but from the depths of his anguish, sprang forth a deluge of wickedness and temptation, tearing apart his sanity until only a shred of his former self remained. 

 

From a pious villein, was born a fabled lunatic, driven mad by the torment of his past. None could tell the full scope of his misdeeds, but the wretched man had become a blight upon the land and all its inhabitants. Fueled by a sin born of wrath, he fled his home, leaving the people of Istria free of his wickedness for six long years. But when he returned, their tongues fell silent, for they knew what horrors he was capable of. During his exile, he journeyed far and wide, seeking out the darkest and most forbidden knowledge from mad heretics and deranged outcasts. And so he compiled it all into a single tome, the infamous Wretch's Grimoire, containing secrets of antediluvian Blood Magic and twisted rituals born of his own genus. 

 

He knew no bounds in his insatiable hunger for knowledge, delving deep into the secrets of the human flesh and mind, preying upon his own kinsmen, neighbours, and lords alike. His once idyllic home, now a cesspool of depravity and corruption, bore witness to the atrocities he committed. So twisted were his experiments that even the very earth upon which he tread turned against him, the forests withered, and the fields succumbed to a rot that seemed to infect everything he touched with its sickly taint.

 

 

Many of those who laid witness to the Wretch of Laria and survived may have called him the “Headless Baron”, and the reasons can be speculated upon. Some whispered that he had long lost his head, and that the body that remained was nothing more than an empty shell, animated by some dark force. Others spoke of how he took pleasure in laying his victims to rest in their own beds, the decapitated heads placed on display like grotesque ornaments. But it was his perverse fascination with the human form that set him apart from any other monster. His experiments knew no bounds, for he would take any soul who had the misfortune of crossing his path, be it kin, neighbour, or lord, and subject them to the most heinous of tortures imaginable, all in the pursuit of understanding all he needed to know to achieve his final solution. The lands surrounding his abode had withered under his touch, for even the very soil itself had been tainted by his foul practices, as if the sun dared not shine unto such a place. He seemed to possess a bloody cough, the yellowing of the eyes, and a thinness that indicated a man who did not eat. 

 

With the land marred as the result of his work, the Wretch had no choice but to sup upon the blood and marrow of those who he slew. When the firewood ran out, he could no longer cook their flesh, and so he ate it raw. But with his further inclination toward cannibalism, so grew a fondness to it only rivalled by the carnivorous beasts that were far from his lands.

 

The Wretch, in his pursuit of forbidden knowledge, uncovered a method to prolong his miserable existence, which, whilst rudimentary, became the basis upon which the rite of the Wretch's Sigil was borne, in order to extend one's life at great cost. Through bloodletting and sacrificial rites, he managed to stave off death, driven by the singular goal of reuniting with his deceased wife and child. Such was his obsession with conquering death that it consumed his every waking moment, leaving little else but a burning desire to achieve the impossible, in order to break the cycle that tore the lives of his wife and child away from, and, as such, his own life, from his clutches. In time, his tireless efforts bore fruit, and he uncovered a long-lost secret of ancient Blood Magic that promised to resurrect his loved ones from the void of death. This discovery would become his greatest work, his Magnum Opus, and yet, his final curse - the beginnings of the Creation Ritual.

 

On the night of a full moon, the Wretch emerged with his wife and child's decaying remains and a group of three men and three women, all shackled together, to the fields of Istria. Witnesses peered from their windows and saw even the livestock grow restless, sensing something unspeakable. A towering pyre blazed to life amidst the wilted crops, the corpses of the Wretch's loved ones laid out with their arms crossed in prayer. The chained prisoners were compelled to chant incoherent verses along with the Wretch, who recited passages from his infamous tome. Then, as if compelled by some otherworldly force, a man and a woman stepped forth into the flames, their flesh hissing and crackling as they burned, without even a whimper.

 

"NEVERBORN!" did the Wretch of Laria call, his shriek piercing the veil between the highest heavens and the lowest hells.

 

As if compelled by a command unspoken, the remaining four raised their blades and opened their veins, spilling their life's blood into an ancient, pitted cauldron. The gore coiled and churned within, a veritable vortex of raw vitality that soon spiralled out, carried on eddies of air and into the hollowed cavities of the Wretch's dearly departed.

 

"NEVERBORN!" The Wretch of Laria screamed once more, his bloodshot eyes fixed upon the crumbling remains of his family. Blood oozed from his nostrils, staining the barren earth with a thin, red trail that led to his deceased kin. As two more figures walked into the roaring fire, a man and a woman, the flames leapt and crackled with savage hunger, as though eager to consume all that the Wretch had to offer.

 

The corpses stirred. The Wretch fell to his knees, his face a canvas of blood and a smile of decayed teeth. He clutched the tome, his bony fingers flipping through the pages feverishly while the final pair of captives lifted their arms in an incantation.

 

The madman barked at the duo in some unknown tongue, and they took a measured step toward the conflagration. "NEVERBORN!" They chanted, advancing with each repetition until they, too, were swallowed by the hungry flames. 

 

Crimson spurted forth from the Wretch's nostrils as the last of his victims perished, his eyes reddening as blood-tears poured down his face. He howled in anguish, only to be silenced by the sound of a newborn's cry. 

 

The child had been brought back to life, and the Wretch was delirious with joy. The infant's cry soon turned to laughter, and as the father wiped the blood from his eyes, he saw a cruel mockery of life. The child had bony, unnaturally long and sharp fingers, a snout instead of a nose, and hind legs like some twisted beast.

 

The Wretch breathed his last, his body drained of vitality by the ritual that turned his child's corpse into a creature that stood upright, feasting on his remains, the Tome destroyed with him. The horrified people of Istria watched from their windows, paralyzed with terror. 

 

 

As the nights wore on, maniacal laughter echoed from the forest, the sound of children's voices filled with an unnatural glee. Days turned into weeks, and the once-vibrant town now lay lifeless and desolate, its inhabitants fled or perished. Starving farm animals were picked apart by crows, and the bones of the Wretch were all that remained as a testament to his madness. And yet, one remained - the Prodigal Son, reborne, Karzełek, who had rapidly aged into a young adult.

 

Karzełek was grateful for his father's sacrifice, but the absence of kin gnawed at his holy yet reviled nature. He was a one-of-a-kind, a being that was both exalted and abhorrent in its own eyes. And so he returned to Istria, the birthplace and grave of his former self, determined to unearth the secrets of his rebirth. Karzełek scoured the decaying hut and cellar where his father had conducted his infernal rituals, where the stench of failure clung to the air like a miasma. His search was long, but fruitful, for he uncovered the Wretch's notes, incomplete and all but legible. With these, Karzełek hoped to perfect the ritual that would give rise to a new kind of man: the Vargr - kinsmen to him.

 

The Varg, firstborn of his kind, devoted himself to the task at hand in the decaying hut of his father. Night after night he toiled over the notes, deciphering and improving upon what remained of the incomplete rituals. When he emerged from the cellar, it was to hunt down the weak and helpless that remained in Istria, or to eliminate the foolish looters who dared to scavenge the abandoned town. The Varg's superior speed and strength, bestowed upon him by his father's sacrifice, made his prey easy pickings. No part of them went to waste; their bodies served to fuel his progress and fill his hunger. And at last, after weeks of tireless work, the Varg achieved his goal. He discovered that the primitive sorcery his father had employed was flawed due to the use of unspoiled mortal blood. The true font of power lay in the blood of his own kind, the Anti-Genus, Mallach.

 

Karzełek had captured three unfortunate men, a looter, an elderly fool, and a crippled preacher, and nailed them to chestnut trees to ensure their compliance. After countless attempts and numerous corrections, he had finally achieved his goal. With his own blood and the Mallach it bore, the firstborn began his chant and the ritual commenced.

 

The men writhed in agony, their screams echoing across the land. Their flesh burst open, their bones cracking as a snout grew where their noses once were. Their fingers elongated, their legs growing an extra joint not unlike that of a wolf.

 

The first two easily shattered their wooden prisons, a frenzy setting them loose upon what remained of the village's inhabitants. The third, a preacher missing both legs, appeared too weak to escape. However, Karzełek was merciful, just as his father had been. He watched over his new brother, bringing him scraps of food from what the others had hunted to keep him sustained. It was never enough to satisfy him, but enough to keep him strong and incentivize him to hunt on his own.

 

Like the roots of a twisted tree, new legs sprouted from the Preacher’s stumps, and Karzelek sang and danced in mad glee, for the ritual was a triumph beyond his wildest dreams. Soon, even the weak and maimed brother was made whole, his shattered limbs growing into sharp and powerful legs.

 

 They were unleashed upon the world, and the tales of their monstrous existence spread like wildfire, whispers of wolf-men and dog-people that stalked the night. Despite their savage nature, the Vargr were driven by a deep-seated yearning for kinship, and they would stop at nothing to expand their bloodline. They hunted and kidnapped, feeding their victims to Karzełek so that he could create more of their kind.

 

And thus it came to pass that from the greatest of blunders, a monstrous abomination was born. The question still lingers, for though evil is not a thing of blood or birth, it was impossibly crafted in the rebirth of the Prodigal Son, spawning a wretched breed that sought to impose their Creator's twisted beliefs upon the world. Indeed, the Vargyr stands alone as a creature born truly evil.

 

Spoiler

Changed some stuff to indicate properly that the Wretch's tome was destroyed alongside him, in order to clarify that there is no current possibility within the Varg lore for anyone to recover the tome and utilise it for power beyond the rituals found in the lore currently. The only rituals that Karzelek was able to recover and work on are now those that make up the current Varg Lore, and nothing more.

 

[SimplySeo 5568]

I can knot believe it.

[Nozgoth 2991]

[squakhawk 8455]

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