gaunt emaciation

So, you want to know what a Wendigo is?

Now, I’m a Native American, albeit of the Cherokee Nation. The Wendigo originates from the Algonquian tribe, generally around the Great Lakes of Northern United States and into Canada. 

There are different ways the peoples believed you could transform/become a Wendigo. 

One way is invoking the name. By doing so, the spirit of a Wendigo could possess the person, usually via their dreams. This would trigger a full transformation. 

Another way, is by resorting to cannibalism. The Algonquian see cannibalism as the most heinous act a person could resort to and it would be better you died without that blemish on your soul. 

Once transformed into a Wendigo, the person is never satisfied. Always starving. Will gorge themselves and never be full. 

Now in the myths, the fully transformed Wendigo is an emaciated, gaunt creature. So emaciated that all of it’s bones are visible beneath the pale flesh. The skin is a pale, ash grey, and the eyes are so sunken in that they’re not even visible. 

The Wendigo is so starved that it will even resort to eating its own flesh. Gnawing on its lips until they’re bloody and essentially gone. 

Now, on a psychological side. There is something called Wendigo Psychosis. 

This is used to explain a human who has a sudden desire and craving for only human flesh, even when other food sources are available. 

* Also, let it be known, I don’t know everything about this myth. I’m not even an authority. That’s not even my tribe, as I stated.

See also Skinwalkers

A Very Mechanicum Christmas

‘Twas the night before Omnissiahmas, and all through the hive,

Not a creature was stirring, though some were still alive

Post-holiday-purge; as we tried to forget

That Uncle Jimmy had been burned as a heretic.

And the children all huddled asleep on the floor,

As visions of Carnodons stole through their torpor.

And I with my pistol at rest in my lap,

Had just settled down for an amasec-induced nap—

When out in the street there arose such a riot

That I assumed we were in for another gang fight.

Away from my window—I will not lie—I fled,

Hoping to avoid any further bloodshed.

The neon signs that flashed on the street’s cement

Cast a shadow on my shutters that seemed warp-sent.

And when I peeked through my curtains, an ominous glance I stole,

Of a tall Techpriest, followed by eight tiny servo-skulls.

This stark red figure was so alarmingly iconic,

I knew that it must be St. Mecha-Nick.

More rapid than an Aquila his servants did come,

As he whistled and crackled in Techna-Lingua.

‘Now Alatus, now Velox, now Spatha, and Perinetus,

On Remidium, on Midath, on Lathe and Lucius!

Go through the window and unlock the door;

You act as if we’ve never done this before!’

As mutants before a Redemptionist purge fly,

When they meet with a flamethrower, deeper into the hive,

So in through our window the servo-skulls flew,

To open a portal for their Master to come through.

And then in a twinkling I heard from the door,

A slide and a clunk as our locks hit the floor.

As I drew my pistol and was turning around,

Through the door came St. Mecha-Nick with a bound.

He was dressed all in red covering head and potentia coil,

And his robes were quite stained with sacred machine oil;

I shuddered to behold the bag flung over his back,

But still could not help but wonder what he held in that sack.

His eyes—how they glowed!  His respirator so clean!

His cheeks made of metal, all highlighted in green

From the ocular lenses placed high on his face,

His natural vision at night probably meant to replace.

He was gaunt and emaciated—a right terrifying sight,

And I couldn’t help when I saw him but to scream in pure fright;

A word to a skull and a tilt of his head,

Soon more than affirmed my feelings of dread.

He spoke not a word, did not seem to rush,

Collected genetic samples from the family, took our names for census.

Then he gathered his servo-skulls and stepped to the door,

Tossed a package from the sack right onto the floor,

And shuffled away into the growing night,

As I tried my best to get over the fright

His presence had caused until a moment ago.

I had to wonder what was in the package, though.

As I opened it up, my hands trembling so quick—

I was afraid for a moment I’d developed a tic—

My eyes lit up—what a sight to behold!

St. Mecha-Nick had left me a brand new pistol!

And through the gloom I heard, though he was far out of sight,


Protector of the Rings

A/N:  This is sort of my attempt at a what-if Uncharted Realms.  It’s a bit soppy, so fair warning (and it is, somewhat unsurprisingly, unedited.)  Edit:  I’m a moron and completely forgot to say many thanks to flavoracle for doing most of the design for the custom card.

Jace landed with a heavy jolt, head reeling.  His stomach flip-flopping, he dropped to his knees and vomited up the salad he had had for dinner with Lavinia.  For several minutes, he was entirely occupied with emptying his stomach, but, eventually, he managed to look up wearily.

He had no idea where he was.  He had left Ravnica after hearing some disturbing rumors about the creatures he had seen evidence of on Zendikar, had tracked the rumors to a particular plane he had visited before, had headed for that plane—and found nothing.  The Eternities in the area were surging with dissonance and chaos, but there was no reality there for him to land on, and he had nearly been consumed in the ravaging tumult.  Only a quick flicker of familiarity from somewhere—not “nearby”, because there was no sense of nearness or farness within the Eternities, but somewhere he could sense—had been enough to save him.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, giving himself a moment to look around and calm down before he tried to make his way back to Ravnica.  The strange sense of familiarity intensified as the smell of bile cleared from his nostrils to be replaced by the stinging, acrid smell of smoke and oil.  Gazing out across the landscape, he saw a ravaged countryside with flickering fires and smoke rising from the meager remnants of forests.  Towering over it were a number of vast circles, sparking and crackling in places with mana and lightning.

The mage-rings.  The thought floated up, unbidden, from somewhere in Jace’s subconscious.  It seemed eerily familiar, but unconnected to anything that his mind told him that he had experienced, although he knew all-too-well that that meant very little.

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