Written by beardedtree

Origin:God-from-Stone:

The Rotted Ox is one of the first hours and was from the place and time that was before the house or perhaps something else. Part of the old powers of ending the Rotted Ox relished in the stasis of that places dying moments and sought to ensure its final end. However, this end was the not final and the stasis Rotted Ox had sought for was broken when the mother bear awoke the glory was rekindled and life began anew. The final end may have been forstall but not stopped and the Rotted Ox now works to bring the end that will one day come.

Location:

In the depths of the manus there is a swamp filled with the ruins of past glories and the memories of those long forgotten. That is where the Rotted Ox resides, where he plots and speaks of the doom that will one day come.

a minotaur skeleton with scraps of withered flesh still clinging to its bones. An aged and gnarled wooden staff from which and hourglass hangs is held in one hand.

Stagnation, stasis and the inevitable end. They say the Rotted Ox once gazed into the fabric of time and learnt what it holds now as the first and only truth. Progression and change mean nothing if will be nought but dust in the end. Those who follow the Rotted Ox are often naysayers and doom seekers disillusioned with life and its ever-changing ways. Sometimes those who whatever reason who wish for a state of static balance or normality may seek the Rotted Ox. But those who beseech the Rotted Ox can be enthralled by his vision and so too believe in the inevitable end that will one day come.

Manus locations

The swamp

Tonight I dreamt of walking through vast swamp cold with the chill of regret. As I kept walking pillars and ruins jutted out of the more as if trying, in vain, to escape the mires grip. As the water reached my knees doubts and a sense of despair encroached on my mind. voices taunting me telling me about how what I have done and what I will do is for nought. I woke as soon as the waters reached my chest but the doubts and despair clung still heavy and as thick as fog.

Despair