Hi, Hello, Nothing but Blood God Techza brainrot
Admittedly my first proper post as part of this particular ship, so don’t mind me being quietly self conscious.
Also a second sidenote; doubtlessly any and all ideas of mine have been influenced by a dozen other better written prompts/other fics that I have read.
That being said, Blood God Technoblade:
The Blood God is feared throughout the lands as a violent God who has no mercy for humanity. He has been known to raze villages to the ground simply because one of the villagers was not respectful enough of him. The people speak his name in hushed, reverent whispers.
The story begins in one such village which is within the Blood God’s domain. He is deeply feared, and to avoid invoking his wrath the people of the village choose instead to offer a sacrifice to the God once every decade in exchange for safety from the harsh bite of his blade.
The villagers wish that they did not have to do this, but know that they must for the overall protection and the safety of the village. At the dawn of each decade the Blood God arrives at the village outskirts to claim his prize.
They have built a special altar in his honour. It is made of white marble and has a blood red altar cloth adorned with a gold trim. It is said that the Blood God is fond of gold. Sacrifices are tied to the altar, where the Blood God will judge them, and if they are deemed worthy he we take them. The villagers do not know what happens to the sacrifices once the Blood God leaves, but no sacrifices have ever returned.
In the weeks building up to the time in which the Blood God will arrive there is much disorder about who will be the unfortunate sacrifice. The village elder watches on, trying to placate and soothe the growing fears of the villagers.
The elder is the oldest in the village, and has witnessed seven of the previous sacrifices take place.
Sometimes it is an easy choice, for some brave soul will offer himself up as a sacrifice for the greater good of the people, and the villagers can rest easy.
On other times the choice is far from easy. Eventually the townsfolk settled over the years on drawing lots to determine who would be the unfortunate sacrifice on the occasions where no volunteer stepped forward.
One year a young girl of only sixteen years of age drew the lot that determined her fate with trembling hands. The villagers were uneasy, but the lot had been drawn. Her parents had been distraught.
However, the Blood God had not accepted this sacrifice. He shunned the villagers for being willing to allow such a young girl to be sent to her death, and in retribution he took the members of the village council and the current village elder as sacrifices instead. From then on the message was clear; women and children were not to be sacrificed to the Blood God.
Every decade after that only the men in the village drew lots, wives and children watching on anxiously.
On the year that the story takes place, a man with an easy smile and shoulder length blond hair was the one to draw the short straw.
A hush settled over the crowd as he was declared to be the sacrifice. It was always a sad day when a man with a family was sent to his death.
The man’s wife had died six years prior of pox, leaving him a single father to his two children. One was aged sixteen, a tall lad with wavy brown hair and clever fingers that was often found plucking at the strings of a guitar. His younger son was aged only eight, and was brash and blond, often in trouble for his silver tongue and wit. Their anguished sobs could be heard in the crowd.
He was well liked amongst the village citizens as well. Every resident of the village would tell a pleasant tale of the man by the name of Philza. He helped strangers carry heavy loads, he gave to the poor, he had even taught for some time in the small village school, all the while caring for his two sons.
It was truly a tragedy that he was the one to be picked for the sacrifice, but the lot was fair, and nobody got special treatment.
On the day of the sacrifice he hugged his sons close to his chest, promising them that he would love them always, and asked them to remain strong without him. The two boys nodded with tear filled eyes.
He tried his hardest not to cry when the knock on the door came far too soon, or as he walked to the outskirts of town, lead by the villagers. He had asked his sons to remain at home, not wanting them to witness what was about to take place.
The villagers began to cover him with pieces of gold jewellery to please the God, slipping gold bangles onto his wrist, rings onto his fingers and finally a golden necklace around his neck with the mark of the Blood God on it. The preparations finished, they secured the tight rope that bound him to the altar, and the man took a deep breath to calm himself.
As the Blood God arrived the villagers fell to their knees, some looking on in awe, others keeping their eyes trained on the ground as though their lives depended on it. Perhaps they did. Those that had never been in the Blood God’s presence before looked on with wide eyes.
The God was a massive, hulking figure, eight feet tall. His long hair fell down his back, and sharp tusks jutted from his mouth, which was pulled back into a cruel snarl. A golden crown adorned his head, encrusted with gems which glinted as they caught the sunlight. The sword at his hips dripped with the blood of slain foes. His blood red eyes were piercing as he scanned the crowd, finally stopping to rest on the blond haired man tied to the altar.
It was all Phil could do to hold in the tears that threatened to spill as the Blood God surveyed him and spoke the damning words.
“I accept your sacrifice.”
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(Part one of hopefully many! But I need to go to bed now and I’ve been writing this off the top of my head)