Scornach

A marred valley hides, amidst the steep faces of its silver-veined mountain, the Kingdom of the Throat. Their god, the only god who dares stave the beastly scourge of the world crawling before the throne, is the same miracle which shrouds them from the gaze of the heavenly cosmos. As divine as the word of the poets which scribed it's very existence, the survivors and preachers know their savior and tyrant as The Storm. You - wryed by roots and shaped by the bloodline of creatures, are Fangless. Birthless vermin salvaged from a timberland coppice of the labyrinth woods. Your eyes were glazed a milk white when first met with the Kin, though your voice warbled a sick mimicry of humanity, convincing or perhaps pitiful enough to sieze their interest. Now, born humanoid in the Numbing Pond, you rouse beneath the moonless night.