Lucius Mortem

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Lucius Mortem
masculine | death lord

About :

Lucius Mortem is a sad, sad creature. He is full of sorrow and misery, something not one associated with death typically is. He is kind and gentle, never one to act out of hatred and anger, but oh, how forlorn he is. You see, Lucius has no memory of who he once was. Unlike other gods, Lucius was born a mortal, but he remembers nothing. He does not know how he died or what his name was. Did he even have one? The only evidence he has of who he once was is the heartache he constantly feels in his chest and rare glimpses of faces he does not recognize.

Lucius is a sympathetic thing, always helping others pass into the underworld and collecting lost spirits. He enjoys helping others, for those are the only times where he feels needed. Being dead for so long has made him lonely, and often he spends his time wandering around places that signify death, such as graveyards. The male has several abilities associated with death. He is able to take life away from somebody, guide those that have passed and allow them to rest, and communicate with the dead.

He enjoys collecting bones and paying his respects to them. He will make small trinkets out of them or create piles in his path. It is said that those who stumble across his bones are considered to be blessed. The spots left behind by Lucius are considered sacred to mortals. Legend has it that the bones left behind by the god of death allow one to communicate with their deceased loved ones. That is, those who are lucky enough to find them.

History :

The cold wasn’t as biting as it had once been when a pelt of black, littered with freckles of white, fell into its snowy depths.

Akash, a young canid of a pelt curiously akin to that of the night sky, felt the oxygen filter from his lungs in the form of a sigh, warming the snow before him. The melted substance was quickly replaced by more flakes of alabaster, covering his shaking, starved body with its warm, welcoming fingers. The rustling of the pearly flakes moving against one another whispered to him, muttering that he was welcome there, and that he should stay. That he shouldn’t leave. In truth, Akash didn’t plan to abandon his cocoon of warmth.

He could still remember their faces.

His mother, Hiwot. A name meaning ‘life’, and truly alive she had once been. Her luscious coat had once been a shade nothing short of shimmering silver, as if the moon itself had blessed her figure with beauty, and she had had one of the longest tails that he had ever seen. Her pelt had been thick and lovely, warm enough to neatly snuggle against in the cooler months. She had been kind and generous, charitable in the way that only a mother could be. He loved his mother. He loved Hiwot.

His father, Aatos. His father had lived up to his name just as much as his mother had, if not even more. The name meaning ‘thought’, it seemed that the wolf had always gotten lost inside his head. His father had been a handsome male, coat a deep russet hue and a frame that screamed power. Tall, broad, muscular--his father had had it all. But he had been soft-spoken and kind, rarely using his powerful physique unless it was to protect his family. He loved his father. He loved Aatos.

No wonder his parents had become mates. They were a match made in heaven, destined to be together. The pure adoration that they had held for one another, the love that had kindled in their gazes when their heads faced each other, the happiness that radiated from then when they were together--it was something he craved, something he wished to have with his own mate and children. He had wanted that happiness, that love, that adoration.

From his parents sprouted three pups. Himself, and his two littermates.

Devi had been headstrong and determined, figure echoing some long-lost ancestor with a pelt of pure chocolate brown. Her name had meant ‘goddess’, and good god did she represent that name with pride. She had been tall and powerful, just like Aatos, an engrained kindness tapering her temper. She had been a leader, the leader, of the pups, standing tall and often making the decisions. She had been gracious and selfless, often brushing aside praise and putting it onto her brothers. He loved his sister. He loved Devi.

Ásvaldr had been much the same, and yet entirely different. A name meaning ‘god’, and ‘power’, and ‘ruler’, his brother had had much to live up to. And, gosh, did Ásvaldr live up to it! With some struggle, the gigantic male had reached his goals of being a powerhouse to stand beside their father with pride. With a coat that was a shade of russet that almost mirrored their sires, he had grown to be confident, perhaps even a little arrogant at times. But he didn’t mean to, often having a kind glint in his eyes, or a charming smile. Either way, he was a fantastic canid to be around. He loved his brother. He loved Ásvaldr.

And, of course, there was him. Akash. A name that meant ‘sky’, he had grown more than proud of his oddity of a pelt. It was an ebony shade, darker than shadow itself, with speckles of white so pure that they were not unlike the snow he rested in. Hiwot had said that it reminded her of the night sky, hence his name's meaning. Life had been perfect. Everything had been right.

Until it wasn’t.

A famine had struck their homelands, gripping them with a hunger so tight it felt as if their spines were fracturing. In its clutches, the small family had lost three of its members--two of which were lost to violent, horrific deaths that still had their screams echoing in his head, and the other the peaceful demise that their pack had deserved.

Devi had been the first to go. It had been during a desperate bison hunt, hoping and praying for any of the herd to fall behind, for the pack to be able to survive another day. Devi, being the headstrong and determined female she had been, had died at just two years old, gored until her flesh was in tatters and rammed until her bones were shattered within her body, the chocolate dame had gotten too close to the bison herd, and more than one member had turned on her. He missed his sister. He missed Devi.

Next it had been Ásvaldr. His brother had done his best to support their pack alongside Akash and Aatos, but even the strongest must fall. It had been during a patrol, just two months after the death of Devi, that Ásvaldr had lost his own life. Akash had been with him when the larger male had spotted a bear cub and, driven to near-madness by hunger, Ásvaldr had not thought of the risks before rushing to the cub to try and kill it. The mother bear had killed him with slashing claws and gnawing fangs before Ásvaldr had gotten anywhere near the cub. He missed his brother. He missed Ásvaldr.

The last to go during the famine had been Hiwot. Kind, gentle, loving Hiwot. She had given her final son all of her food, had forced it into his mouth so that he might survive the famine that gripped their family. Just a week after Ásvaldr, hunger came for the female. Hunger came for her during her slumber, drove from her stomach to her brain and pushed her to her final breaths. It was a peaceful way to go compared to her offspring. It was the kind of sendoff, falling asleep and never waking up, that Hiwot deserved. He missed his mother. He missed Hiwot.

The famine had left them after that--but was the cost worth it?

No.

Akash would have lived in a famine his whole life if it meant he’d gotten to keep his family.

Now it was just Aatos and Akash. His father got lost in his head far more often, staring off into space, barely cracking a smile in his direction when he called his name. Aatos had, finally, been broken. Aatos had been shattered beneath the weight of the loss he had suffered. He wouldn’t suffer for long, though. He wouldn’t deal with the pain of another loss.

The stranger had arrived in the night.

Akash couldn’t recall the pelt nor stature of the being, but he knew it had been male. It had crawled into their den, into their space, into their home, and had been aiming for him. For Akash. His father had awoken, and had joined the scuffle before it had started. It was a desperate battle. It was Aatos’ last battle. The creature, the foul, sniveling, horrible thing had claimed his father, had taken his life and thrown it away into the winds.

Akash had never seen so much red, had never wished such violent thoughts, had never lost himself into such thoughts and acted upon them. He had never claimed a life, had never ignored the screeched words of his victim (they had been something along the lines of claiming him to be some kind of lord? Akash had ignored them, regardless), he had never sunk his fangs into another canids flesh, he had never ripped out another’s throat and wished for only more violence.

But there was a first time for everything.

And now, with the blood still glistening on his maw and body being buried in the falling snow, the canine that was all bone and no flesh fell still, allowed himself to fall asleep, allowed himself to slip into the ever warmer embrace of death.

When he next awoke, he found that he had no memories, no recollection of anything, nothing to claim as his own, no thoughts except for one: I am Lucius Mortem, and I am the Lord of Death.