Mercy is the lie of the weak.
Before law was written, before light was kindled, before breath stirred the wild…
There was hunger.
And from that hunger rose Drak.
Drak does not wear flesh as the others do. He does not adorn himself in feathers, stone, or fur. His form is a warning.
He appears as a tattered robe suspended in the shape of a man, yet no body fills it. Beneath the fabric moves a living swarm of locusts, writhing and clicking, countless and tireless. They pour through the sleeves, gather at the hem, cluster where a face might be. When he speaks, it is the sound of wings and chitin grinding together. When he moves, the swarm shifts as one.
He is not a singular body. He is consumption made visible.
Locusts strip fields bare. Time strips empires. Drak strips illusion.
He governs destruction, punishment, unraveling, and sacred ruin. He tears down what is corrupt, stagnant, or falsely preserved. Where others cling to comfort, Drak demands reckoning. Where others delay collapse, Drak hastens it. He does not destroy without purpose. He destroys to reveal what survives.
Empires fall beneath him. False prophets are exposed beneath him. Weak foundations crumble beneath him. Only what is strong enough to endure remains.
His faithful do not beg him for protection. They ask to be tempered in flame. They offer ash in sacrifice, believing that ruin is the most honest teacher.
Major Boon:
Minor Boon:
Curse: