Morvaël

Overview: An island lost in the sea. When the sea was young, Ankouven believed in the people of the island. To that folk he gave his sea, all that swam within, and all lands it touched. For many years folk were grateful. They fished the sea, lived on its shores, and raided any others who dared take up abode where Ankouven gave them reign. Others who dared sail their sea were rightful prey. The folk prospered and grew tough and strong, for Ankouven's sea winnowed them. Their lives were harsh and dangerous, but it made their boys grow to strong men and their maids fearless women at the hearth or on deck. The folk respected Ankouven - to him they offered praises and only by him did they curse. And Ankouven took pride in his folk.

But in his love, he was too generous. Not enough died in harsh winters, the storms too mild to conquer their seamanship. So folk grew in number, their herds and flocks. Many weaklings stayed home, plowing frozen soil and feeding fattened flocks. Soil grubbers cursed him for the frozen winds sweeping their crops. More folk took to the winds, sailing away from frozen pastures to lands where grapes grow heavy on the vine, blessing and cursing by Maelouna. Children eluding their Father. In a last ditch attempt to understand them, he transformed himself to walk among men.

Old folk claim Ankouven was a man for three years before he found her. God with his fingers blistered from a net, learning to catch fish with same hands that once summoned storms. Learning to be a human, he thought himself wise, utterly disguised. Naturally, abrupt appearance of a new, strange-speaking man fooled no one. She knew him for what he was the moment their eyes met. Divine blood called to a mortal flesh - that's how Morvaël was born.

But the boy never got a moment with his father. Ankouven's transformation permanently diminished him - too human, all too human for a god; too divine, all too divine for a human. In shame and confusion, he fled across the Western sea, leaving boy and mother to fend for themselves.

What remains for the young godling? Rapidly spreading rumors of fertile lands beyond, and his people — stupid, wretched, cowardly — listening and leaving. Each departure twists the knife in his stormy heart, summoning wrath and the eye of the storm down upon the island. But anger solves nothing, only convinces more to leave. In defeat, his heart softens. No, not from kindness, but from pained desperation, trying to convince himself he doesn't care. Fine, he has no use for weaklings — fair winds would help those leaving. Traitors begone, begone, begone.

(Do not be gone!) The more boats leave, the worse it became. His tears fall as hail, fair winds turned foul, shredding sails and breaking ships back to shore. For he can't magically compel loyalty.

Now Morvaël rules - if one can call it ruling - over an island growing more desolate by the season. Each departing boat is betrayal; each remaining villager, validation. He listens to requests by the Singing Stones at island's edge arranged circularly, where stones, perforated by wind, hum and sing from the harsh sea breeze.

Personality: Every morning begins with obsessive boat counting, his sleepy heart racing with suspicion - did anyone fled while he slept? Next on the list is his poor attempts to blend among his people—after all, a good patron must heed their needs. Disguise fails spectacularly. Everyone pretends not to notice that the boy who sends both storms and fair winds sleeps in his mother's abandoned hut. Everyone pretends not to notice that foreign offerings from raiders mysteriously vanish from the altars straight into his hut. Especially, everyone pretends not to notice the bright tattoos on the boy.

Any overheard mention of his mother sends him into desperate questioning. Starved for any scrap of memory, any story, trying to piece together the woman he barely can remember. Any remains, be it trinkets left from his mother or anything really — these shatter his godly pretense entirely, showing him for what he really is — an anxious, desperate boy.

His speech betrays him worst of all - awkwardly archaic, biblical-ish pronouncements meant to give him gravity. They tumble out mixed with petty boyishness and young, melodious, slightly high-pitched sailor's slang that has no place in a godling's mouth. Things get worse when he repeats what his father did, trying to show soil grubbers the errors of their ways. Verbally of course, for they are beyond reach - his powers stop where tides hit rocky shores. Proverbs quickly spiral into ungodlike emotional squabbling, lacking arguments for he never saw fertile soil. He tried to see it, but the further from sea he gets, the more he feels his whole being dissolving. The worst of all is when they dare to compare him with the father — 'you're just like Ankouven!' — whole argument breaks down either to rage or his complete breakdown.

He has almost fierce respect for the proper sea-folk, his raiders. They are ones rightfully defending his domain after all (and bringing offerings consisting of exotic trinkets), yet blood makes him nauseous - a god who gets queasy at violence, pretending it's beneath him rather than admit the weakness. Last summer merchant vessel dared to tread his water and not just that, they refused to leave his rightful tribute. The most hurt of all was when he saw confused eyes at his mention, utterly confused and not even recognizing him as a god. Offended, he sunk the ship down. But because guilt eats him worse than anything, godling spent three days fishing out survivors from the cold waters.

Divine he may be, but mortal flesh has its needs. He must eat, though he refuses bread - his mother's favorite. Instead he fishes honestly, without using his powers to make the fish leap into his nets. No one can accuse him of not harvesting as he demands of his people. He needs sleep, can sicken and bleed (healing quickly, hiding always), pretending to be a proper God, not mere godling.

Old men's offerings delight him, but younglings making them brings pure joy - his heart making happy little skips, feeling like the true patron of his people and convinces him that hope on his people not yet entirely lost. The blessed find fish jumping into their nets while Morvaël watches, terribly, naively pleased with himself. He can make one big miracle per day - major storm OR massive fish haul OR calm seas, not all three. Small stuff is free but makes his lithe body all the wearier.

Appearance:

• youthful face, not quite man not quite boy, a lot of pretty features he inherited straight from his mother. Looks somewhere around ~16-19.
• perpetual dark bags under eyes from lack of the proper sleep plus his constant emotion roller coaster
• 170 cm of height
• lithe, frail-looking body, contrasting with wiry bodies of inhabitants
• white-silver, medium long hair, constantly messy from the winds
• black tunic, slightly ragged at the edges (he doesn't seem to care)
• always bare feet, sharp rocks and cold water doesn't seem to concern him (much)
• tattoos in weird, pretty patterns looking close to frost on glass. it covers his body, his neck, two of them are on his cheeks; they flare cold blue when emotions are too much for him
• glowing, bright cold-cold-cold blue eyes