#omeara

It is said that in this land's birthing throes, unknown to her mother land nor her father fire, a child was born. Born in darkness, beyond the spasms of heat and subduction, in the gaps where the light of fire did not touch. It was there, in the infinite potentiality of the dark where anything might dwell, a consciousness emerged like a lightless spark cast from a heatless flame.

Of her form she knew nothing, for no light would draw close enough to reflect off of the polished obsidian of her prison-cradle. She knew she had eyes, for she could see the amber glow of far-off flickering flame, and she knew she had fingers - many fingers - for she could feel the surface of the cold stone, but that was all she knew, and perhaps all she was.

For many years she dwelt within that place, forgotten by all, unable to see anything other than the light so far away. And so she turned inwards and slept, for that was all she could do, and wandered within the realm of dreams. It was there that she saw the sweet and sour sleep-dreams of animals, of their families and sensations of warmth and safety and fear, and she grew jealous and hungry for such things. It was there too, in rare moments, that she saw the dreams of the Gods Themselves, and how They raised mountains and stirred oceans and birthed life, and her jealousy and hunger grew more, but this time fear-laced, for the world above changed so much more than her eternal cradle-prison.

For many more years she stayed like this, until it was in one of these rare moments of divine slumber that she, instinctively, daringly, blasphemously, stole the dream of a starlit Goddess and ate it whole, taking it into herself. Whatever celestial glow suffused such a dream was quenched within her, but the divine spark remained.

It was then that Omeara woke up.

(Omeara starts with 2d6+0 -> 5,3+0 = 8 power.)

She called to her those oft-forgotten children of Velarië that could reach her - insects, worms, and other skulking and skittering things - to assist her in her work. She set them, along with her many handless fingers, to carving rooms within her new manse, chambers for herself and her future possessions, with her black prison-cradle at its heart. It took an age before Omeara was satisfied with her many vaults and tunnels and crevices and passages.

(Omeara uses Shape Land to make an extensive subterranean realm. 8 - 3  = 5 power remaining.)

Then Omeara turned inwards once more to furnish her manse. Fearing reprisal should her thefts be too bold, so she only took those things people might not notice: dreams, old memories, knowledge lost. It was with these stolen thoughts she filled her chambers, creating underground lakes, dream-warped forests, and oddities amongst them as a curator might fill a display.

(Omeara uses Shape Land again to populate the subterranean realm with some flora and fauna so it’s not entirely inhospitable. 5 - 3 = 2 power remaining.)

Ever-hungry, but for now semi-sated, Omeara dwells under the land and wanders her museum of pilfered memories, admiring all of them like a collector. When her hunger grows, she haunts the dreaming lands or sends worms and other vermin to seek out more to add to her collection.

It is she who steals your dreams when you wake, she who plucks the knowledge of that misplaced item from your head, she who takes the faces and voices of your loved ones in your memories long after they've passed. It is to her that all those things without souls, from crumbling towers to all the rituals of a dead civilization, will eventually belong. Omeara is driven by a sort of fear-laden greed, to collect all within her subterranean manse so that they might be preserved forever, beyond the reach of divine or mortal who would so carelessly forget, and to only shared with the trusted in times of need.

It is said she shares these halls with Erland, too, at least sometimes. Some say she is his sister, some daughter, some enemy, some lover. Whatever the case, she welcomes him whenever he visits as a proper host should, and lets him walk her halls at his leisure, though forever staying furthest from his brilliant light. She, too, welcomes those who feel they have no place in this world, and those to whom this world’s challenge is too great and desire relief in the quiet dark. However, no matter how honoured a guest, none may enter the prison-cradle-heart of her home where she keeps the greatest and most dangerous secrets.

Omeara is the god of things forgotten, secrets, places where the light of sun nor moon touch, vermin, greed, dreams, revelations, and is patron to prisoners, thieves, and the banished. To her you might cast the memory of a lost love to be swallowed up, or sleep in a lightless place and hope to be blessed with dream-given visions of things lost or things to come. And when a fly lands on you, say a prayer so that it does not steal a memory as a gift for its master.

Coup de grace

15.09.2021 Omeara London