Loretober 2025

For this challenge I choose to create short mythologies based on the prompts. I also decide to group them, doing two promots each.

The Folicle Fiend

Solbatr was a god renowned for his magical hair, which shone like threads of polished silver and could maintain its shape under any extremes. Neither rain nor blade could dampen Solbatr’s mane. How Solbatr was able to maintain such form was a secret known only to him. Try as they might, no one was able to witness his routine, save for his wife Toska. And yet, he would always have a new style for every season. Styles often copied by gods and mortals, even without them realising.

Many admired Solbatr’s hair, though some were envious. None more so than Tratyv, Solbatr’s youngest brother. While still beautiful by many accounts, Tratyv forever lived in his brother’s shadow. Following one too many feasts in which Solbatr presented his new hair for the adoration of the other gods, Tratyv hatched a plan. He offered honeyed wine and words to Toska. In her delirious state, he was able to extract that Solbatr possessed a magical razor which could cut the hair of any being, even Solbatr.

Upon waking, Toska gasped, waking her husband with a start. In the night, his entire head had been shaved, save for his eyebrows and top lip. Whomever had assaulted him could not risk getting too close to his eyes or nose and waking him it seems. Panicking, Solbatr sought his razor. No luck, it had been stolen. Flustered, Solbatr began seeking out and questioning every other god in the palace. In every case, however, he met the same peculiar series of reactions. Initial shock and horror at his appearance, but followed by pleasant surprise. Each and every god agreed that, while bolder and stranger than any other his previous looks, this was his best one yet. Solbatr’s anger slowly faded into contentment.

He had almost forgotten the lost razor when his father dragged his brother into the great hall by his ear. Tratyv was a mess. He had apparently attempted to graft Solbatr’s hair onto his own head, stealing its beauty for himself. Yet, the hair would not take, much of it was falling out or clumped awkwardly in unflattering shapes. Worst of all, Tratyv had used the razor to remove some of his own hair, in hopes of grafting his brother’s leaving unappealing, misshapen patches of hair dotted over bald patches. Nothing looked like it belonged.

Despite his anger, Solbatr could not help but laugh at the backfire. Tratyv sought to make his brother ugly and himself beautiful, but had actually done the opposite. Solbatr then assured his brother that, with the razor returned, he could fix both their hairs, though he might hold off on his own. In one last spiteful outburst, Tratyv laughed and revealed he had destroyed the razor in his anger. Tratyv’s laugh was cut short when Solbatr revealed that anything cut with the razor could not be regrown, except with the razor itself. Both of them were now permanently stuck with their hair. Safe to say, Solbatr had an easier time accepting this than Tratyv.

Solbatr is revered as a god of beauty, especially masculine beauty and in regards to facial hair and bald heads. Meanwhile Tratyv is reviled as a god of vanity, envy and denial, of all those who stoop to dishonour in search of attention, as well as those with terrible combovers.

The Exile in the Marsh

It's been so long I've forgotten what I was running from. All I know is that I am not ready to go back. Not until I...I'm not really sure. Life isn't so bad out here anyway. This endless marsh is hardly glamorous, it's cold and damp and it stinks. But it is peaceful, there are no people to bother me here, at least I don't think they're people. I see them sometimes in the mists, just beyond my sight. They seem strangely familiar, like I've seen them before. Sometimes I approach them, cautiously, hiding in the tall grass. They become clearer that way. Their shadowy shapes become sharper, they surround me on all sides, and my feelings towards them become stronger. Some of them I want to protect, others I hate. One, fills me with an intense fury I have not felt for anything else. This large looming shadow approaches me, a crown of spikes atop its head, a bloody weapon in hand and a murderous intent in its eyes. I am afraid, but I cannot flee. With a new, metallic weight upon my head and another in my hand, I stand firm. I pretend it is courage, duty, honour, but in truth, I fear what happens if I flee more than if I stay. This is not a man before me, but something greater. Something that will destroy everything I know, unless I stop it. A sudden wind clears the fog, and I am alone once more, left with only questions.

When I am free of them, the marshes are calm. Many would call it boring, but I find it freeing. In the human world, everything was engineered, everything was designed for a specific purpose. It was a world of straight lines, of uniform colours, of letters and numbers that define your purpose and worth. Here, there is no order, no rules, nothing above you but birds and clouds. The only signs of civilisation are the skeletons. Buried beneath the dirt and waters for centuries, clad in peeling flesh and rusting metal, surrounded by decaying spears and shields. There are thousands, maybe tens of thousands, beneath my feet. I often feel ashamed when I see them, so many lives cut short in brutal ways, however, something deep within me knows that it was necessary. These people died for some great purpose I do not know.

Among the corpses, a glint of gold catches my eye. Strange, all the metal here has long since rusted. Moving closer, I spy a singular piece of metal, untarnished by time. Pulling it from the earth, I find a large ring of gilded brass. Admiring it, a compulsion overcomes me. I place it upon my head. I feel its weight. I have worn this before, and I remember why. I know the name of every skull I see. I think I am ready to go back now, the shadow is waiting.