Stylized History of Fcuk Tremor

A little something I wrote up for RP in Einar.

Don't TL;DR this, assholes!

There once was a man that lived in the light places of the world. He was a proud man, an intelligent one. He lived in the north. A small hamlet in buildings of white birch bark that were always kissed by the snow. In the sunlight, the land was set aflame. The snow glistened with an arcane brilliance and the buildings cast no shadow upon it's majesty. The man was a lover of light and beautiful things. He had a slave. She was as pale as the snow, with hair as white as a star. Her eyes  and lips were the pale pink of a cherry blossom. The man enjoyed lying with her pale body at night and watching the way his long black hair mingled with her pale locks. He was a raven in her snow storm, a shadow in the heart of the light that was she. For many years the man found contentment in the beauty of his slave. Her purity was a balm to him, and he needed nothing more, but he was a man after all. The urge to wander crept into his heart and he began to prepare. To the south, he would go, so see and sate the wonder in his soul.
He left his girl at home, with instructions that if she should not return within a certain time, the girl would be free. With such arrangements in place he gathered his belongings and left the pristine, frigid north. The light shining in the snow caught his eyes as he meandered away, a small trail of dark circles leading back to the image of his slave, naked in the door way, her pale body cold and afraid in the bright light of the outdoors. with that last glowing image locked into his mind, the man made his way south. His travel was unpredictable, in the way that all travel generally is. He reveled in the icy beauty of his home, for there was no land more lovely, nor clean than the north. When he reached the south, however, he was horrified. It was dusty, dirty, decrepit. There was none of the ethereal beauty of his homeland, but instead there was only the dry dust, dank mud and dark loamy earth that he so hated. The beauty he had sought was absent from every facet of the nature and lifestyle. It was so bawdy to him, so vibrant and garish that it shocked his mind. Though he wandered far, only disgust and discontent fueled his heart. Finally, camped in the fields near the great city of Ar did he decide to return to the north, to it's purity and to his snow-bodied slave.
It was that night, asleep beneath a bed of glowing stars, his white tabuk-pelt furs stained and creased by hands of travel that a storm started. It began with wind, cracking, blowing from frigid lands in the northern wastes and beyond to flatten the grasses of the plain. The roar was not enough to wake the man, for he was of the north, but it did blow away his pack, stripping him of such petty possessions. Summoned next was the rain. It fell down as heavy as the hand of judgment, crashing upon the man. His breath was stolen from him and he sat up, his thick black hair and dark beard drenched, ringing his face like a shadow. So hard did the rain pour that it washed the dirt from his robes, rending them white again as the proud man braced his back against the rain and stood into it's might. As the rain ripped at his body, and the wind's keening screams tore into his soul so did he lift his head and defy the storm. He had lived through the wrath of the northern blizzards. He had no fear. It was then, however, that the thunder came. It's deep voice growled out to cover the land. The man thought he could feel the earth beneath him tremble in submission at the tone. The earth was enslaved by the sky, a misbegotten, misbehaving beast that would soon learn it's place, for soon behind the reprimand of thunder came the lash.
The man braced himself. He gazed up into the gale, feeling dwarfed by the thunder, but he did not back away. The explosions of it's might echo'd fearlessly over the land, and a pale purple caressed the clouds. He turned his face upwards, and that is what he saw her.
She climbed down from the heavens, as his body was cupped by the wind. The ground where she alighted burst into flame, the earth charring and exploding from her grace. And the man perceived. He moved towards her fading grace to find her flickering ambiance receding from the shattered earth, and it was then that the man knew the trueness of love. He watched her, her long legs receding across the plane, and he persued for her argent beauty was too great and terrible for him to release. The storm seem to slow, seemed to halt it's restless path for him, for he soon found himself in it's heart. There, in the center of the gale he called and reached for her, knowing nothing of her but what he could see. The light, the beauty in the heart of the darkest place on earth was a sign, it seemed. And so she deemed him worthy of her savage attentions.
She crept down from her perch in the heavens, and her fingers moved to embrace him. His reached for her arms with love, and joy, for the man obsessed with beauty had found his Queen. So regal was she, so perfect that he could hardly bear to look upon her. Her finger brushed him and he shivered, a tingle running up his back. As she embraced him fully he new pain, he new fire and agony and he knew for one intense moment perfection. Even as she tore at him, he sank into her and grew lost in her light and warmth. Her terrible splendor and delectable destruction. There, cradled in her deathly embrace did his world go completely black.
The man awoke, much as he had been asleep. His clothes had been charred, falling into ruin upon his powerful frame. His hair extended up in his head, ringing his features as a halo. He leaped to his feet, dizzy, ravaged, and looking about with desperation for his lover. He could not find her. For days the man wandered and wept, seeking she who had forsaken him. Eventually he found his way into a swamp and there he let his agony and sorrow turn to bitterness. He withdrew from others, stewing in the dirt he had once so despised. His hair never lost it's rigid nature, and to his day he guards it. For even though he was forsaken by his lover, his heart still yearns and to this day he bears the last remnant of her he has. If you seek today, you might find this man in the lands of Skerry. He is Fcuk now, a swamp dweller who sits, silent and fading as the years pass. He watches from his simple perch, gazing over the lands to the horizon, always waiting the return of his heart.

Boudicca Spiritor,
Story Giver of Einar