Voodoo Dwarf Cleric of the Great Mother, steeped in the magic of the Witches of Vyankal
His body didn’t used to be covered in the inked cryptic ouroboros and paradoxes of the Witches of Vyankal. Their pagan madness hadn’t yet flowed through his veins, their devout caring of pure happenstance and the personification of such a coldness manifested in their idolatry, orgies and voodoo dedicated towards the senselessness of the maneuvering of the great mother that is engraved in the very granite that fostered such life.
In modern terms, you could call them nihilists. But, their borderline insanity and in tune nature was where they drew their power. Blood. The life force of the moveable living; leveling in its warm viscosity, pooling, and bubbling; churning through artery and valve. Their rituals and sacrifice and ludicrous worship of the unsavory grotesque on the surface sours the outside onlooker’s palette, but in truth these witches and their magic was only concerned with balance, the discerning of the voice of that great mother, the divining nature of blood and blood being spilt, the cycle of this volatile churning, and the mysticism associated with intuition and the foretelling of the events to come.
Their worship of blood was similar to the curiosity of geneticists sequencing the double helix of our archaic structuring, DNA. The different types of blood housed the architecture of each species design, unique in each flavor, distinct with each being in which it courses. They discovered there was power, life-affirming energy, in the calculated concocting of various species of blood. An art form of witchcraft that was lost in the reasoning of the arcane. There power was not derived from intellect, but wisdom, heart, and strength of character.
Such a craft and cult arose in the moorish memories of the great battle of Vyankal. Such an exchange of blood sowed the seeds for witchcraft, which wasn’t pursued out of yearning but out of necessity. These cursed lands required such a magic to insure survival and this motley sect of the divine was a Frankenstein of conventional religions and traditional train of thought that was obscured, twisted, morphed, and voodoofied; an organic evolution.
The ink that stained the skin of Gylek was the textural manifestation of such beliefs and secrets of such a wild form of divining. Hallmarked by the control of life: its healing, destruction, and manipulation, Gylek was bestowed with such a power through the trials in which he was put to test. Many had succumbed to the cold hand of death under such stress, but Gylek withstood, out of sheer will, the abuse and battery and manipulation of the Witches of Vyankal. He was their prize. A dwarf steeped in the otherworldly energy of the great mother and voodoo of Vyankal. And while his grueling transformation from husband, father and leather worker was complete, he abandoned the witches out of distaste for their cruelty. They had become crazed in their lust for power and maddened by too much time spent in Vyankal, they had lost their path and he had seen too much. He and his brothers were mere play things to these powerful mistresses, many of his brothers being the subject of sacrifice, sucked dry of blood, left to wander the moors aimlessly for an eternity, or even more unsavory fates.
He wished for a quieter time. All of that almost forgotten past lost in a hazy fog of voodoo that grew out of him like a parasite, eventually dominating the once peaceful husband who had all that he loved ripped from his stout clutches.