In the moments before the sun rises, cusped on the edge of the horizon just waiting to burst forth into day, he arises. Totu, the western deity of Death and endings. They say he listenes to the the western wind. They say he knows peoples darkest secrets. They say he feeds on peoples souls. They say even the other Deitis all hate him. They say he is evil. They say a lot of things.
DomainsTotu, while the most mysterious of all the deities, including even Tuhku, is recognized by his domains.
DeathDeath, for one, is the most recognizable. he is, undoubtably, the most recognizable deity of Death. he comes when those are close to crossing, aiding them along their journey into the next stages. People fear his touch for they know what it may suppose, but the truth is he can no more bring death than he can utter a word.
WindThe wind carries with it a chill that creeps down your spine. it whispers with a voice that's forgotten how to make noise, breathlessly caressing intrustion and commands into those who please him. The wind his his voice, quiet as a whisper yet strong enough to down nations with the right breath. They say it comes before him, snaking through the city allies and dunes, looking for lost souls to claim.
ColdHis presences is always marked by a chill creeping through the air, slowly sucking the life, the warmth, from everything. The sand shimmers with frost, barely dampened by it's moisture. Where he walks, breath comes in short, blurry bursts.
ReasonThe most contested of his domains is, in fact, reason. long ago, it's suposed that he curbed Vekeko's impulsivity, her fire for life all the questionable decisions that come with it. In all ways, he is opposite to her and as such, he must dictate logical, intelligent thought. and yet, now his voice has been silenced, so does it really matter?
Common AppearanceWhile it is true no Diety is bound to one appearance, Totu seems especially attatched to his. Long black robes frayed and charred at the edges that flutter in the western wind. They hide him, wrapped around his frail, skeletal body like burial robes just waiting to be put to use. His finger, nimble and long, are darkened with the soot and ash from the dying fires in his path, cold to the touch no matter the heat of the day and shifting sands. Everything about him is gaunt and pale, stretched too thin over brittle bone. His eyes, sunken black pits with vibrant white centers, peer out at the world in a detatched sort of curiocity. Patient. Inevitable. Watching the world, waiting for his moment to strike. In spite of his peircing gaze, the most horrifying thing about him is his mouth. Stitched together by a fine pice of thread, it stays firmly shut, the punctures greyed and stretched with age. He makes no noise, silenced long before the memory of time, or so we assume.
WorshipersAs far as most people are aware, no one would be crazy enough to follow a deity that, as far as the people know, steals the life from everything he touches. There are some phanatics, those that wander the deserts screaming of omens and coming destruciton, but thye are given little thought. Those who worship him openly are ostricised from society, believed lovers of death and death alone.
There are rumors, of course, of his followers gathering. They linger on the fringes of society, offering a helping hand to the down-trodden and whispering their words in outcasts ears, leading others to his gaze. Why, people can't understand. What people don't understand, they fear.
Thin, oily, black