๐๐ข๐ณ๐ฌ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฌ๐ซ ๐ฆ๐ซ:ย Religious zealotry, Mortification of The Flesh, asceticism until death, generational trauma, belief of "Natural Evilness" & Ancestral Sin, totalitarian utilitarianism, The Global War on Terrorism, vengeful ideology as the result of cultural subjugation / ethnic cleansing, proselytization of disease, forced violation of oneโs body, the erosion of free-will, total world assimilation, preaching of Misanthropy & Cult of Personality โธธ
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ฮฑโย ๐ฌ HOW OSMUND FEELS ABOUT YOU. (No Longer Accepting!) | โฅ ฮฉ
Faith is for the weak - a sentiment boasted whilst intoxicated from blessings innumerable. Whilst Silverdax submitted to Enlightened authority, swearing a covenant, Jack promised Osmund from the bottom of his blackened heart that his nature was unspiritual. But it wasn't honest, of course. He represented all the poison Los Iluminados associated to humanity & their antiquated individual-thinking.
The Mercenary being a hired gun was a comfortable lie they both told themselves. There was a blossoming sense of kinship, or dare say a flame of a friendship burning between, but Jack was far too traumatized to allow peace, & Osmund was far too monstrous to understand affection. The dances they shared alone on the battlefield, clashing plaga against steel, was their intimate methodology. Their shared violence was secret to all except them, or so they believed, only feeling at home when showering their bodies in each other's gore & viscera. The lie forbade them of putting a name onto whatever they were & what they meant to each other.
It protected them --- chiefly Jack --- from any questionable implications by prying eyes, former loyalties or hostile organizations alike.
& hiding from glances they did, as they were far from professional, given their overt Master & Slave eccentricities, exchanging devious glances, moaning in light of obedience, among other physical vulgarities, such as not being commanded to sit on one's knees. If the United States or dare say even Albert Wesker knew the true extent of Jack's fall into Osmund arm's, it would be more than a veteran tragedy, it would be the political scandal for the century. For how else could one explain his fervent oblige to see another man's everlasting pestilent flesh? Under the illusion of privacy? Under many fabrics of cloth? In 'the pursuit of power' could only be used as an excuse for so long. The mysteries of Las Plagas were kept secret to all converts except one.
& Osmund, reflecting how long he has disrobed himself, unfurled himself to sate Jack's morbid curiosities of his Holy Body - he could only offer a shake of the head, chuckling.
"What can I say? He was a free man... who made a choice."
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ฮฑโย ๐ฌ HOW OSMUND FEELS ABOUT YOU. (No Longer Accepting!) | โฅ ฮฉ
The Merchant of Death had turned himself away from the Prophet & distanced himself from enlightenment. He ruined none but himself & generations of innocents, yet he failed to perceive it. If only Ricardo could have seen when he will be imprisoned before the Fire! He will cry, 'Oh! Give me another chance, I will never deny the signs! I will surely become a true believer!' --- But the sentiment has come too late. Once, he served the Heretic Wolf. Once, he escaped divine judgement. Once, he blasphemed the Holy Body. Now, with a cursed form & cursed mind, he waits for due punishment...
Osmund had slumbered then, but his eyes nonetheless remained open. Every Majini, every Adjule, every manner of Plaga manifestation in Kijuju harbored a spirit of their Lord, their True Father. Ricardo hadn't known, but his avarice, selfishness & wrath accumulated in the presence of the monsters he created. When the ampoule plunged, God did answer, for his prayer of power would ultimately seal his fate. --- A devil created was a demon condemned, stressed to cow toward Lucifer in a Hell of their own creation. All that remained were chains to ensnare & drag Satan's newest prize to the foulest pits of the underworld : Sanctuary. & what a gift The Merchant of Death was indeed, rife with a pitiful sense of failure & self-loathing to taste...
"A wretched child spared from the rod for far too long. Foolish, believing he could deceive me." It mattered not what poisons festered in his veins, what walls he cowers behind for protection from the world - a rain of plagues was an inevitability. The moment Ricardo abandoned his guard, the mere second his shield faltered, it was over. "He shall be whipped for the evil he has earned. Disciplined to accept the blessing I conferred."
Wherever he was hiding, he would be found, for both had an immortal lifetime to wait!
It wasn't all. The Prophet knew, for despite the torture he suffered at the precipice of his rebirth & now within the hands of his caretakers, Ricardo was given a revelation in the marshlands; a happier way to live. & as many hosts have trialed before him, Lord Saddler would teach his 'humble' tribulations. "Yet, fret not, for he will learn to love his suffering, as all little lambs do... trotting at my heels, begging for lashings..." Whether by his own will or not, Ricardo was utterly shackled by these pests, & more importantly, The Speaker they chose to voice for them. Perhaps it wasn't all bad... for how can life be painful if agony was twisted into a vile form of ecstasy?
ฮฑโย ๐ฌ HOW OSMUND FEELS ABOUT YOU. (No Longer Accepting!) | โฅ ฮฉ
The resemblance was uncanny & such a notion tasted as acid within the back of his throat. It was beyond disgust. Beyond repulsion. How appropriate for an agent of Western imperialism to resemble the master which enslaved & imprisoned him for years? Which had profited off the suffering of his race for generations? The irony was cruel, for even the United States couldn't help perverting its corrupt fingers within a politically destabilized Spain. They violated their nation, feigned irreproachability, yet took root with their ever-expanding militarization. - But such hostility didn't begin with the turn of the century, naturally. 'You must treat Spain as you would a pretty woman with a bad temper', were drilled by American diplomats during the times in which he was young, among countless wars.
A nuclear disaster wasn't enough. Neutrality in light of a repressive dictator wasn't enough. Caring not for Nazi which occupied indigenous soil wasn't enough. Bending the knee to Umbrella, allowing it & their heresy to fester, wasn't enough. There was no end to their unscrupulousness, just as servants of The Salazar's continued to accumulate as flies on shit. & he believes himself as their envoy & presidential doormat innocent? He believes retaliation against the police state & it's moral depravation unjust? He believes he is washed free of blood, as he serves an institution which enacts atrocity after atrocity in the name of freedom?
"Both sinners in the most need of salvation." The Prophet's infinite forgiveness was nigh exhausted; Diego chose divine justice as the form of a gilded blade, but was it too late to persuade Leon to abandon the Hellish path he now tread? "One tastes the fiery pit, but the child - despite everything he has wrought - I pray. I pray for him."
The Father's son has aged exponentially, whereas he has remained static, shackled by immortality. Both have proven themselves quite difficult to kill, & whether the everlasting God's resurrection is known remains to be seen. The obliteration of his unit following the arrest of Maryland's senator, it was punishment more than deserved for the slaughter of Bitores, Ramon, Jack, & thousands of brethren he cherished within his bosom. A lingering air of vengeance stalked The Agent; Osmund wished that he writhed awake at night grieving the loss of his loyal men. How it felt to lose them in an instant; as he had, as his own teacher had. Retribution would haunt for the rest of his mortal days until penance was afflicted by the claws of Almighty himself.
"I beseech Our Lord that he suffers. That he suffers every ill imaginable until he lies beaten and broken. That his disobedience is rewarded with distress upon distress, until he begs for release from hardship, begs to become a true believer of the faith."
Osmund Saddler's relationship is defined by the tragedies that encompass the Master / Slave dynamic regarding Las Plagas, as well as being a Ganados in general terms.
Eloisa Luz-Ana Avaro is created by Jaqi & can be found at @sucordera.
Trigger Warning: NSFW 18+ Sexual Content (Not Safe For Work)
They first met nearing their 20's, with Osmund only having known human beings as a host & nutrition resource prior. As Osmund's newfound Dominant abilities began to take hold, he was awakened to a more complex sense of intelligence. Over time, Osmund relied less on instinct & preservation, & was capable of more compound calculations, such as emotional manipulation. This was a catch-22, however, as once Osmund was bestowed the illusion of free-will, he was granted false sensations of depression, happiness, guilt, love, sympathy, etc. which would not be possible for a Subordinate plaga. Osmund was then burdened & able to experience the Hellish landscape in which he lived for the first time.
The world around him changed dramatically. Osmund no longer bathed in tranquil waters, but suffered under the agony, famine & imprisonment of a genocide. Though gifted with virtual immortality, the war seemed endless & had persisted for centuries before him. Eating his own for sustenance would have been an afterthought - now he understood the loss of his brothers & sisters, & how such a contribution for the colony was sacred. Osmund understood the persecution by the masses he faced, & how much of his identity was desecrated for it was deemed heretical.
Then it began to weigh on him how afraid he was of loneliness & solitude.
Humans at that point were no longer just food or fodder, but friends, foesโฆ something even more. Osmund was a mutant battling how to navigate a mysterious new power called 'emotional stimulus', trying to make heads or tails of these desires to connect with humanity... whilst simultaneously salivating at the thought of devouring & killing them. Much like Progenitor carriers, he is overwhelmed with a need for aggression & it simmers behind a disturbing & evil smile. This fed into a constant cycle of needing a bond, but knowing that once he would obtain this bond, it would result in agony or destruction for the other. Osmund then truly began to understand why his bloodline was regarded as Cursed; doomed to roam in a sense of Purgatory, but never able to be cleansed to achieve Heaven. While his pursuit for a connection was selfish, it did not fail to garner sympathy entirely, as the romanticization of unholy figures was popularized at the time of 1800's, such as Demon by Mikhail Lermontov in 1843.
In that time, it was becoming increasingly more prevalent that these spirits were neither demon nor angel, but a tortured soul. Capcom takes a similar approach with the cultists, describing them as more nuanced than one might initially believe :
Even Lucifer himself was regarded with a sense of pity in the later translations of The Divine Comedy, more evident by Gustave Dorรฉ's accompanied engravings in the 1800's. While such a sentiment would have been blasphemous under The Salazar's, Valdelobos was not wholly isolated from outside influence & it was likely that this sentiment spread, but suppressed. Los Iluminados had fallen into myth, but it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that a mutant, confused for a devil of spiritual lore, would be interpreted with a mixture of attraction, contempt, fear & shock. Combined with the presentation of mutations, which could be perceived as otherworldly powers for any naive human, even more so.
Eloisa largely assumes the role of Princess Tamara, as she pitied Osmund's personal plight, only to find herself in tragedy. True to the poem, once Osmund forms a total, irreversible connection with her, Eloisa dies by means of assimilation & he is doomed in search of another host once she becomes eternally part of him. Ergo, he's left alone.
Their relationship is much more complex than this. Their relationship can be clarified upon in further questions, should anyone ask.
While Osmund did not assume the role of a tyrant & horrifically despoil her wedding & kill her betrothed, they both nonetheless courted each other through means of shared fascinations & friendship. His embrace was not lethal, but exchanging any manner of essence was. He knew of this consequence & provided occult means to avoid contracting his pestilence. Every kiss, bite, or sliver of affection that broke skin was ritualized. Eloisa teetered a line between life & death, was enamored with having a supposed God wrapped around her finger & charmed that despite for all his rage & savagery, he couldn't bring himself to consume her. The notion within his minds was acutely distressing. Flagellation upon himself was abundant to distract his 'malicious intent' impulses & obsessions from causing her harm. He carries many of these scars presently.
In hundreds of years, a profound sense of terror was first instilled within Osmund Saddler & Dominant Las Plagas by extension. They understood the consequence of heedless slaughter & how pitiful human beings actually were. For coexistence to function, a semblance of care (though this care would be abusive) was a necessity.
Sex was approached hesitantly as Osmund not only lacked the appropriate human anatomy, but he was grossly inexperienced, clumsy interpersonally, & could not perceive pleasure the same way human beings could. Las Plagas reproduction also is bizarre & it was a puzzle to figure how weaponized mutant genitalia would function with non-weaponized human genitalia. His initial knowledge was obtained from educational pieces & archaic pornography, before he was taught by Eloisa herself as an instructional guide. Because of his dangerous biology, much of his sexual performance leans submissive & feminine. In the vast majority of sexual encounters, Osmund is the receiver, unless he is certain whoever he is giving can handle punishment. This carries over to the caste system in which he is obliged, for those at the top of the eusocial kingdoms are reproductive. They breed to provide a constant supply of brood. While he can & does produce spawn asexually, genetic diversity is sought, so he will allow disciples to breed him parasitically. This stands for human & mutant encounters as well, given Osmund can "steal" genetic material within a single generation.
Pleasure, to Las Plagas, is intertwined with violence. & the nature of their reproductive process is violent (not to be confused with non-consensual). A temporary adherence to her CNS was necessary in order for Osmund to experience a more human pain & pleasure, rather, Eloisa's pain & pleasure as his own. & while the attachment to her nerves caused great mutual suffering, it was soon overshadowed by a sense of chemical-induced bliss through parasitic secretions in her bloodstream, & they communed as one henceforth. Sex was conducted attentively, patiently & slow to ensure there wasn't gross (meaning perforation) injury, to avoid reckless conception, etc. The ritual, while observed by many brethren of the faith (for such a communion had not taken place since the 1550's), it was done at Eloisa's behest. She had dominated. She had willed. She had controlled. She had explored. It was one of the rare instances in which Osmund exhibited an enslaved mindset voluntarily, reverting to a Subordinate state which had worshipped her, her body, & her enlightenment whilst underneath. For the ritual, he was intoxicated with her, her flesh, & her body, not power. It was not Las Plagas forcibly imposing itself, for it had been generations since it had been adored & accepted willingly, despite its nature which mimics a primordial fear. The loss of their virginity wasn't perfect by any means. It was awkward. Mishaps were bound to happen between two different organisms discovering each other in a more vulnerable way for the first time. Cannibalism was involved to keep a Ganados cravings within check. Frequent stops occurred to gauge Osmund's level of consciousness so he wouldn't assimilate by mistake. They both valued the physical & psychological connection, as well as the dismantling of their vulnerabilities, before focusing upon the sex being perfect. Their intimacy would improve each subsequent time.
โ Eloisa was previously desensitized toward death given her occupation as an undertaker, which worked well in Osmund's favor. Despite that, she still pushed past discomfort regarding the threat of contracting disease. Upon closer inspection it does become apparent he is a mutated corpse controlled by a foreign organism. She, despite his putrid nature, still chose him freely. For other suitors of Osmund, intimacy did not come as naturally, & there was always a looming sentiment of disgust towards what Osmund is, which is effectively a cadaverous, rotting shell. Eloisa is the only consort, a human, that is memorialized as part of his uniform for this reason. The depicted figure is not a goddess, saint, or priestess, but a maiden!
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The nameless stranger who patched in the radio, whether an apostate, demon, heretic or nonbeliever - the approach wasn't being dignified with a response. Not even a prayer of forgiveness. The device, following a pathetic groan as if he were being tortuously wrung to split in half, was finally thrown behind & abandoned. If a mortal was foolish enough to believe they were more deserving than a babe which embraced The Holy Body from within the womb, the human species were surely too far driven into sin. Imbeciles... The lot of them.
"You used my curiosity and want to help people against me. You said you wanted to find weakness, only to use my research to make this infection stronger. There's nothing Holy about these things... It's because of them my only family burned."
Solemnly, Osmund frowned with the familiarity of the vagrant child from his past. Luis was but a hollowed shell, disillusioned by Umbrella & withered even further with the erosion of his home. A once intelligent boy, now a researcher deluded with tales of maddened Spaniards. Unable to see the irony in being obsessed with the long-lost days of chivalry. Stuck in a whimsical fantasy of his own creation, as historical reality was too difficult to bear. He blamed 'monsters' for the death of his own family, but refuted atrocities his own kind perpetuated for ages unpunished. The crimes laid bare at his feet paled in comparison to the evils of humanity. It was sickening.
A hiss resonated through the device, clutched tightly between his claws. For anyone else, the signal would have been cut, the offender captured & then whipped in the dungeons. What audacity! But Luis was the exception. Luis, he believed more righteous, more honorable. A miscalculation he would not make twice. "You dare speak such insolence, when I suffered oppression under your race for generations?" The metallic casing cracked under his grip, as The Lord stifled & swallowed centuries of maltreatment. Persecuted for so long, they had grown accustomed to simmer their agony, grief & rage. They were not afforded the privilege of being unburdened, chosen to saddle the sorrows of the world.
"It was not us who ignited the flames! The blame rests upon your ilk, which fear and kill what they do not understand, with no remorse!" Luis was a tool to be used, but not in the self-serving way he believed. The faith was real. The intention was real. The wish of Los Iluminados was a modest one, their 'domination' inconspicuous, not a biological storm which would uproot the entire world. Unlike Umbrella's ideology which was destined to fail, Las Plagas legitimately promised a future of a more ideally balanced ecosystem. It would bring order to chaos. It would bring about a world free of misfortune. What did Osmund have to gain from exterminating the population, let alone selectively by nation, religion or creed, when everyone & everything could think the same? "Foolish child... I do these grand works for you. So no more families would taste the torment of burning. How can you not see that?"
You purified me from the sin of a past I once clung to shamelessly. You became something like home. A refuge that I wanted nothing more than to curl into and remain. You provided, you gave, you were selfless. I could only return the favor in ways I only knew how, to reciprocate in what I only understood. Often do I feel as if it may not be enough with what I give you, because you delivered me unto a new life and rebirth.. I may even admit I adore you. No, not adoration, itโs something like love. Or rather it is love. Yet itโs something you may never understand, but what I feel is unconditional, but translated into loyalty. I am your dog; I will guard your flock as I rest by your heel for as long as Iโm breathing and living.
The radio is pressed closer, ever closer against the cup of his ear. Though he hid anonymously behind a machine, Osmund could place a name to the scratchy growls. How could he forget such honeyed words drunk on the selfish pursuit of power? More importantly, how could he abandon the memory of such a talented tongue, wet slick along blades & crosses? The longer he prattled on, the more Osmund yearned to press a heel to his throat, having similar proclivities to violence. Not that the infamous Silverdax of legend would mind, of course, driven past the brink of insanity.
"Did you lick the boots of President Graham as well, or do you reserve your toadying solely for me?" Osmund chuckled darkly, gladdened with Jack's... very detailed length of subservience. There was a hint he was deeply honored, perhaps touched, as well. But, despite that, The Mercenary was never exempt from being tugged on his leash callously: "How about... Albert? Were you just as servile for the Heretic Wolf?"
The device could have been forsaken long ago, tossed behind & left to gather rust, but listening to the stoic militant choke out such sycophantic flattery was as alluring as it were humorous. Among all else, The Lord desired gospel - & he could glimpse through any intent to deceive now that they were one. The relationship between them, how they crossed paths, & what exactly proved the Voice of Pestilence a better choice, a willing choice, over Umbrella's most prized creation was intriguing. Albert was perfect in every way, disturbingly so, yet Jack made the decision to run to the plagued embrace of Osmund, instead?
"Did you worship freely on your knees? Pray for his water on your mouth?" It was going to be a long night for Major Krauser, as every inquiry purred off his better's lips with a deliberate tantalizing seduction. Snarling struck the microphone as if he were toeing between sexual arousal & maniacal laughter. The Tempter would not stop until his lesser was beet-red in complexion, sweltering hot, & writhing with mortification in his tent. Perhaps rage, as well. Punishment for such a prudish mind was all too easy! "How deeply did he feel your body? Did he hold your heart within his hands, as I do?"
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"I've told myself I can handle this on my own. I've done this for years with zero help or empathy from anyone. All I've got is repulsion, hate, that shit. I've been alone with no guidance. You've shown that I don't have to be alone. I tried, I really tried, but I don't have to...not anymore."
The admission seeps of exhaustion: a foreign notion to a God everlasting. Pity lingers & The Preacher's mouth purses as he reflects upon the pained words. Calculating his answer over the communication device. Anguish. Suffering. Another lost soul in a vast ocean of heretics & nonbelievers. At first, a lash of the tongue; but a gentle one. "Such is your nature. To be stained by the wretches. To be afflicted by thieves, traitors, liars, cowards and cretins." What followed the reminder of their place was comfort. A familial reassurance. This mortal had been punished enough, being one of many souls which had surrendered to the light. They were not put down out of misery. Why would Osmund curse them more? "But you, little one, bear their blood no longer." Something resided inside. It was a seed, a seed that could be felt beyond the limitations of the radio. A plant which belonged to Lord Saddler, who mothered & wove every blossoming flower with his fingers. The communion they shared & the plaga they now bore was faint. It nestled & squirmed comfortably in the core of their chest, much like a babe pressing against the womb. Their body was uninvaded... for now, but the gift was an erosion, rooting, until nothing of them would remain but worship.
Lord Saddler recalled the mysterious initiate. It was the desperate tranquility given only by plaga they prayed for. A salvation The Lord believed humanity needed. An infectious mark that would kill the poison of an individual mind.
The guidance they sought poured over, much like the purifying waters of their baptism. His physical eminence was unnecessary, as his magic did not heed the limitations of man. Though fleeting, it drowned their system from afar to the length of mindless adoration. Until the host would next wake from their intoxicated stupor, & beg for another cup, & another, & another... from the addicted depths of their consciousness. Though young & resorting to feeble ways of technology to beg for an audience, the confessor would embrace a language only a highly-communal race could provide.
"O', who has been granted the book, revel in being unburdened, delight in your chains being broken." Was it not a blessing to be His child? Freed of solitude? Freed of contempt? A smile creeps with the faintest hint of gum. How gracious was He? "Soon, very soon, you will harbor a magnificent power. The promised covenant, it is now merely a taste of what is to come."
