His waking memories of Rendar were few and far between but his dreams were full of his homeland. Running around on the farm, watching his Ma and Nan tending the household, his father and brothers wrestling during breaks from working the fields. One thing that seemed off was the woman watching from a distance. She was tall, pale, beautiful, and wearing billowing translucent robes. He’d never seen a woman like that before or else it’d be burned into his soul. Whenever he would notice her he would wake in cold sweats in his cell with the other slaves. Her image and presence fading from his thoughts as quickly as they had appeared.
Where he felt Throm’s pride and love flowing through him from his deeds and prowess, he felt something else wrong and dirty in the back of his mind. Every foe he felled brought that small voice and yearning a little further forward. It was but a whisper to the roar of Throm’s voice, but it was there.
He continued whispering the word of Throm to his compatriots as his fame in the pits grew. He knew some of them would betray him and tell the masters, but his notoriety and fame only grew. They continued to throw bigger and badder creatures at him. They tried to poison his gruel to weaken him, but Throm demanded equilibrium and a fair fight thus helped him cleanse his body. The more his strength of faith grew, the less he paid attention to the poison in his dreams.
Eventually, the night came where they tried to bring him down in his sleep. He was dreaming of being in the pit fighting the heroes of his people from the sagas his Nan would sing. He screamed out with joy at being blessed with such an honor, but slowly the heroes became monstrosities and creatures of madness. Desperation began to set in and he noticed the woman was alone in the stands watching. He called for her aid, he knew his strength was waning and he would be overwhelmed. He saw her shift in form several times rapidly until she was behind him, arms around his waist, whispering into his ear.
“I am hungry, my gorgeous boy. Let Mormo drink the blood of your foes.”
The weight of his great axe became nothing. The steel had become black and jagged and cruel. A large yellow eye in the point where blade connected to handle appeared glowing bright. He was dancing with death and knew no limitations. Black tendrils intertwined with his radiant bursts of energy. He launches bursts of power from his hand in addition to the swinging of his axe. He stood among the dead of the creatures that had swarmed him and he felt empowered. The dream melded away from him and he found himself naked standing in his cell surrounded by dead guards, holding the axe he saw in his dreams. He looked down into the yellow gem eye and heard the voice whisper again to him, “Feed me, Gothos, they tried to kill you this night, but we will make them pay.”
The rest of the night was a blur he doesn’t quite remember. Clad in the armor and clothes of his would-be assassins, he gained an upper hand on the guards he stood in his way. The leathers and tabard he wore over the armor became permanents stained red with the blood of those he butchered. Whenever he crossed an innocent he reined in the axe’s hunger and flashes of a tentacled creature screaming flashed behind his eyes, but he was stronger than that and the teaching of Throm steeled his hand. He eventually made it out of the city where the fighting pits were located, covering his grotesque visage in cloaks. He intimidated a trader to take him as far as he could and eventually make his way out of Vaegog.
He continued on town to town, offering his axe to caravans and his faith to those who needed it. He heard little from Mormo unless the axe was in his grasp, but he learned which jobs would keep her at bay more than others. He slowly learned to balance her hunger and Throm’s word and continues to live with the duality.