Sanguinar

In the stygian chapters of creation, before the dawn of light, there existed a deity whose essence was as terrifying as it was sacred. Sanguinar, the Blood Shade, transcended mere fear and power; he was the shadow cast by life itself and the silence that followed death’s last whisper. His skin was not just dark; it was an abyss from which light could not escape, and his eyes did not merely glow with crimson—they burned with the unholy fire of a thousand blood-soaked sunsets.

The horns that crowned his head were not just symbols of malevolent grace; they were the instruments of a macabre symphony, resonating with the screams of the countless souls that had been claimed by his will. The aura he radiated was more than might and menace; it was the oppressive weight of inevitability, the certainty that all paths tread by the living would converge at his bloodstained throne.

Sanguinar’s heart, forged in the crucible of the world's first slaughter, did not beat—it thundered, a relentless drum heralding the march of endless conflicts. With each pulse, the ground would quake, and rivers would run red, not merely with liquid fire but with the lifeblood of the Olden world itself, sacrificed at the altar of the eternal cycle of predation and survival.

His rise was not witnessed with mere horror and fascination; it was an event that rent the fabric of reality, a calamity that etched itself into the collective nightmare of every living being. Where Sanguinar walked, the very earth wept tears of blood, and the sky above convulsed with violent hues of despair.

Temples in his honor rose not upon the grounds of great battles, but in the midst of slaughterfields still wet with the agony of the fallen. His altars were not simply stained with blood; they were monuments of flesh and bone, testimonies to the unyielding truth that life was transient and suffering was eternal.

His followers included not only healers and warriors but also apostles of the macabre, zealots of the flesh, and harbingers of doom who sought to commune with the darkest aspects of existence. They understood that Sanguinar’s gift was not the duality of life and death, but the revelation that both were merely facets of an endless, inescapable hunger.

The scriptures dedicated to the Blood Shade were etched in the skin of the living and the dead, written in a sanguine script that pulsed with the dread of those who dared read its words. Sanguinar’s whispers did not offer solace; they seduced the mind with the cruel truth of mortality and the intoxicating promise of power drenched in the essence of the soul.

Rituals in his name were not just offerings of life's vigor; they were the theater of the grotesque, the sanctification of the end that awaits all. His priests and priestesses were not mere practitioners of hematokinesis; they were the architects of anguish, the shepherds of the bloodied veil between life and whatever lies beyond.

Such was the doctrine of Sanguinar, The Blood Shade: a covenant written in the essence of being, a testament to the grim reality that all life, no matter how vibrant, is but a fleeting beat within the heart of eternal darkness.