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The God of Formors

Nobody liked him, but then why would they? He was the leader of what attacks the Milletians in the world of Erinn. It's not like he would have remorse over it, he didn't care for the weak creatures. They were nothing but obstacles in his way. Obstacles that would never cease to exist. Obstacles that he would have his Formorians attack over and over again. Killing them off one by one, but they would always come back. Death didn't exist in this world. Only scars and pains that revealed the past for one.
It still hurt. That was one thing that was always bothering Cichol, like a thorn of a rose stuck in flesh. He never told anybody about it, no one would listen to him, not even the Formorians. He was alone... Alone in the world of Erinn.
He pulls off his hood, making sure he's completely alone as he does so, and his fingers trace over what would last forever.
Deep scars, each eating away parts of his face. Healed, but still there.
It still hurt.
A long forgotten accident, that he himself could barely remember, the cause of what lined on his face to that very day. The reason why he hid beneath a hood, drawn over his head, covering himself completely. Deities were never meant to be this ugly. They were beautiful creatures, as many humans would believe. If it weren't for the giant, white wings sprout from his back, Cichol would have questioned if he was truly a Deity or not. He wasn't beautiful, these scars proved that.
Gripping onto the edges of his hood, he pulled it over his black, shaggy hair, and ruined face. Hiding the truth of what he truly was.
An ugly, horrible, monster.




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