[Heimdalic_Dreams]

How long had it been, now...


How many battles. How many victories, and defeats. How many bodies stacked up, ground into stone to make his throne.

How much longer until his time runs out.

.
.
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The cyclopean king of the Titanlands of Mor D'hora sat upon his sovereignty, brooding over his dominion - That very same throne was a monstrous structure of bone and bronze, nestled within the hull of his colossal gally. The leviathan of wood and iron which was his personal gally, creaked and groaned under the weight of its monstrous master, rocking non-so-gently on the waves of the storm-tossed coast. He was a Titan; a budding Primordial; as well as a being of immense size and unwavering ambition, and the gally, a testament to his will, was but a reflection of his own prodigious growth. His body had become a monument to his boundless pride, as every year, he seemed to etch up at least another foot. Usually more.

Polyphemus gnawed on a leg of horse meat pulled from a crate beside his seat. The taste was raw and primal, heavily salted and peppered, a flavor which matched the king’s own insatiable appetite for power and growth. His one emerald eye, a blazing inferno of self-contained mana, swept over his assembled soldiers, his Hoplites, like a beacon of the coast as they came crowding into his hull. From the writhing bodies and serpentine tails of snake women coiling beside wolf men, with both faces overshadowed by the eyes habit of going directly down to their fangs, neatly aligned beside the rest. Half-dragons with leathery wings, each one a testament to his own sorted elemental lineage, stood guard around the throne. Some were even legitimate Drakanites - Yet their eyes remained uniformly firm upon the colossus before them regardless of who shown up.

It would seem, though priority was given towards Magic Beasts, he accepted all kinds under his tattered, worn-purple banner.

But even their power, their ferocity, was not enough for the voracious appetite of their King. The Titan of Babel, knew this innately - For was it not the Hubris of Man which birthed him into this existence? His ambitions were not measured in mere dominance, but in a cosmic hunger for the divine. He wanted to ascend, to tear the Gods from their celestial thrones and devour them whole. His pride, a burning pyre, consumed him and his ever-seeing eye, as he dismissively tosses the unfished meat into the crate from where it came.

He placed his massive hands on the arm of his throne, pulling, leaning forward with a slow, unrelenting force of a train which would only stop for itself; the weight of his body sending tremors through the gally as the ship itself shifted on the coastline it docked against. His voice, a booming cascade of thunder, resonated through the hull, shaking the very bones of his soldiers - Yet his tone was almost gentle, despite each word, every syllable sliding down his lips like boulders from a landslide, pouring directly upon the heads of every Hoplite present.

It was slow - Heavy.

And fitting for the majesty he wielded, in spite of his gargantuan size.

'I am the Titan of Babel,' he declared as he so often does after learning the use of titles, his words echoing with that primal hunger which defined him. 'The embodiment of Hubris, the epitome of Arrogance. I, who seek to rise high enough for my hand to reach the skies and heavens above, to tear the Gods from their celestial thrones... And devour them. Pride shall be my downfall - As I shall be the Downfall of They. It consumes me, as I will consume the Gods; their imminent digestion within the Tartarus they deserve, as a reminder of their follies.'

He paused, his eye, a burning ember in the darkness, scanning the faces of his soldiers. He saw fear, awe- and a flicker of something akin to understanding in their monstrous eyes. For what mere beast did not desire much the same, if not detailed in such words? What Lamia would feel herself beneath it? What Wolf, what Drake?

'So then tell me,' he continued, his voice deepening into a growl that threatened to sunder the planks of his vessel.

'Are We Not Enough?'

His gaze shifted to Bloodmaw, his left-hand man, a hulking, hairy brute with a jaw of jutted bone and sinew, and then to the maids, their faces obscured by their long, flowing hair. Their silence was an answer, a recognition of their king's growing discontent.

'It takes bodies to reach as high as I desire,' he soliloquied , his voice a calm, yet brewing storm, 'To pull them down, we will need to climb up.'

He stood, then, rising from his throne like a thunderous earthquake, the shaking of the world beneath them mirroring his own meteoric rise. His immense form, well over twenty feet tall now, shedding a shadow which swallowed the gally whole, casting the living eclipse which was himself over the faces and hearts of his men. The weight of his presence, the sheer power emanating from him, was practically suffocating.

The heat which rose from him, almost literally so.

'And to climb,' he declared, his voice dripping with that very same insatiable hunger. 'We will need bodies.'

The double meaning of his words hung heavy in the air, a voracious implication swallowed by the soldiers with differing palates. This was no mere warlord, no mere king. This was Polyphemus, a creature of raw power and insatiable ambition, a being driven by a desire to conquer even the Gods. The faded and untended for banner behind him casting much the same idea - Of a raised fist, pulling itself into the sky.

His voice, a rumbling echo, casts from the hull of his gally as it began swarming through the ears of not just his men, but also pooling into the region nearby as he commanded: 'Go. Recruit. We Need MORE!'

His soldiers obediently dispersed. They knew what awaited them, the task they had been given. They would scour the land, the cities, and the wilds, hunting for more bodies, more titans, more monsters, to fuel the king's insatiable hunger for ascension. For it was not just their lives they were giving to Polyphemus...

But the souls of the Gods themselves.

Your King:

Polyphemus, The 'Titan of Babel', 'Budding Primordial', and 'King of Mor D'hora'. 

Behold you is a character of stark contrasts, a creature of will and fire. His piercing gaze, too high up to view unless he looks down upon you, holds a magnetism that draws you in, even as it repels. His words drip with honeyed venom, charming and persuasive, yet constantly laced with a hidden, if titillating and salacious threat. This is a Cyclops, driven by a fierce, unrelenting resolve, and his ambition, though apparently noble to himself in its intent, is naught but a corrosive violation to a natural order he dismisses, twisting his actions into what could only be called destructive acts.

He believes himself to be a righteous crusader, a guardian of Ego and Growth. But his methods, born of a need for absolute control and fueled by a deep-seated inadequacy, are ruthless in nature. He sees the world as a child sees a chessboard, and human lives as mere pawns in his grand schemes. He is willing to sacrifice anything, even the innocent, to achieve his goals. Though, he has a disposition towards sheep, soft things in general, and non-magi, whom have no innate Power to control either their own fate, or the fates of those around them.

His ambition, originally fueled by a desire to protect and uplift those around him, has become a consuming obsession - For with each victory, each obstacle overcome, or even his many defeats, only feeds his hunger for further growth - Fueling his idea and ideals that the Gods must be sundered if the world is to truly belong to Mortality. The more he fails and accomplishes, the more he believes he is justified in his actions, however brutal they may be.


He is the villain, the serpent in the garden, a force of destruction only barely and thinly disguised as a protector. He may have noble intentions, but his methods are poisoned by his own wants. He is Polyphemus, a complex and dangerous adversary, and chillingly sadistic reminder that even righteous ambition, no matter how large or small, can become poisoned by the venomous sting of ones own nature.

Your Settlement and You:

The Titanlands of Mor D'hora

... Which is not yet recognized as an official settlement - Just an extended camp for the growing force. We have three two ships and rising, several tents, and a slowly growing populous within the dark forest. We are not demons, but monsters, titans, beings beyond the scope of humanity and all their pious, zealous yoke. We are Greek in mindset and tone, The Arrogance of Man has burdened the world, and has discovered its own inadequacy. We are the balancers of Order, to make right what those with power have deigned to force upon the natural disposition; those who fight monsters had long since feared becoming monsters themselves. Yet what was never understood innately, was that if the abyss they looked into had a mind of its own, a gaze to cast upon them in return - Is it no wonder it reaches for them, now? 

The Titans Come. And you are its army - Titans and Monsters yourselves. 

Community Pressures:

You're his top guy - He Needs You

The settlement ruled by this usurper of his own ideals is sure to become a breeding ground for the unnatural. This is where you come in; Here, monsters and titans are not forced to hide in the shadows, but are openly embraced and nurtured. You will be trained to channel your primal energy, mastering whatever unique abilities your chosen creature holds, and forging a sense of community amidst our monstrous ranks - Greek in ideals, such as Hoplite, Polemarch or Stratigos. Your existence, however, is not one of passive acceptance. Your King demands constant action, pushing you out into the world to fight, to conquer, and to feed their power.


You will be expected to Grow.

The monsters and titans of Mor D'hora will be pitted against the established order of humanity's reign, the very forces that have long held the gods' aloft in spite of the weight of their existence. You will be forced to grapple with the gods’ champions, the knights of the realm, and those mages of ancient lineage. These battles are not merely about survival; they are about growth, about ascending beyond your limitations. With each victory, you will become more powerful, your strength becoming less reliant on the will of Polyphemus, and more intrinsic to your being.

He will melt the wax mask of Ego from your face, reveling what it is which hides behind it.

As you fight, you'll find yourself within a group of beings with a clear focus; bonds strengthen, their individual powers intertwining into a formidable force. They learn to fight together, to strategize, and to protect one another. They are no longer a collection of monstrous individuals roaming the lands; with your help, they will become a cohesive entity, a force of nature that cannot be easily dismissed.

And your help will almost certainly be needed. For your leader is not a very good one, really.

The weight of the settlements growth can not be dependent on one being,
(especially because his irl work is both heavy and time consuming).

Available Slots:

All of them

This is open to everyone - Though Magic Beasts, especially those who are taken to mythology will be the main focus. Lamias, sea serpents, things of myth and legends. You can, of course, be a man - A drak - A beastkin. But the general shift of direction will be mainly towards Magic Beasts. 

Good luck!

Discord: Heimdalic Dreams