The Burntblooded Titan
From Lost Fables Wiki
Primary Author(s): CheeChar, Ebony_Umbra
(The contents of this page are NOT common knowledge)
"A primal rage so intensive, the power of malice the Titan holds could rip apart the Prime Materia himself should his bellowing rage be uncontained." - Alexander Gratzali
Aggromaraphar holds influence over the Demonic Steppe of Wrath, as well as the primordial flame which evokes the Incinerators. He enjoys the conflict and strife of mankind, playing an unseen hand in many bloody acts of history.
Aggromaraphar is known for his use of the Primordial Flame, creating a semi-sentient fire that cannot be put out by normal means. It is said that this plays a role in the creation of the Incinerators. While he is physically the strongest Demonic Prince, he is the weakest for his lack of understanding the Truths at his disposal.
There are not many known artifacts of Aggromaraphar, as he does not believe in helping the mortals through their suffering, especially if it will end the strife. His known artifact would be his sword from legend, G̵̨͇̀̉̆̆l̴͇̥͈͉̟̬̿ù̸̟̩͓̠̪̱̻̗̰̹̈́̽̄͋̕t̷̯̂̈́͠͠t̶̝̱̬̗͕͚͎̳̓̔ǫ̴̤͖͖̫͙̥̱͇̒͆ṋ̴̮͖̱̯̝̬͖̈́y̵̛̥̝̍.
Aggromaraphar is a demon of wrath. He treats himself on the delicacy of human conflict, essentially bathing in it; using his influence over the incinerators to force mortals to act in self-destructive manners that will lead to strife, conflict, and war. In times of prolonged peace, he will command the Flame of Aggromaraphar to lead his bishop and incinerators to aggravate tensions between hostile nations. By the will of the Burntblood Titan, his aides will encourage mortals to commit war crimes during massive conflicts in order to cause further unrest and divide the mortals amongst themselves, gorging himself off their endless cycle of pointless conflict. He views his twisted games as a way of purging Anoma of the weak, as only those who could release them self from suffering as he had. Through conflict, the strongest most deserving men will raise themselves from the depths of hopelessness and all of the worthless trash who give in to such pressure will die; becoming a footstone for the growth of the strong, feeding the strong and his endless hunger. He is depicted by a longsword with a collection of flesh growing at the hilt; its cross-guard adorned by a large eye, the iris filled with the blood of his victims. The flat of the blade seemingly formed of viscera and jagged teeth, as if the very blade could come alive and bite one’s arm off. During Aggormaraphar’s massacre, it consumed the souls of multiple incinerators, as well as the previous Demon Prince of Wrath; Toren the Torturer.
When Octavian abdicated the throne of the Gravacus Empire to his firstborn son to follow Sequestus’ will as his champion, he knew he would not die peacefully. That is why he formed the Third Order of the Grail, to invoke his Lord’s wishes as his champion, and becoming the Grail Knight Commander in the process. Now, Octavian stood before the crystalline holy waters of Sequestus’ Garden located within the deepest catacombs beneath the church of the Third Grail Order which reflected the elder’s face in astonishing detail as he stared within. There was a loud explosion which shook the very ground of the holy land, causing parts of the crypt to cave in behind the Grail Knight Commander to cave in. A look of worry flashed across his face, they were almost here. They cannot be allowed to steal the Grail, he thought to himself as he lowered the Grail into the holy water. He began to pray, but was interrupted by a chorus of laughter from the collapsed entryway, where four bishops watched Octavian’s futile efforts. Octavian turned on his heels, raising his longsword at the sudden appearance; the blade igniting in a yellow flame which teemed with the divine energy of Sequestus’ aid. He shouted towards the demons before him, teeth gritting as he spit every word like venom on his tongue, “You will not take the Grail!”
One of the bishops rushed towards Octavian with an outstretched claw, cloaked in a long red cloak which contrasted uneasily against the oppressively black flesh of the demon’s claw. With a swift turn of his body, Octavian brought the flaming sword downward in a crescent arc which cut the bishop in two; yellow flames catching onto either half, blazing violently as it cleansed the demon from the mortal plane. The brutal efficiency in which Octavian dispatched the Bishop of Wrath caused the others to hesitate; yet the Bishop of Lies attempted to sway the Champion of Sequestus with his words of corruption, “Where is your god now? He leaves you to die in this hole, your disciples lay dead and dying; give us the chalice and we will leave your little group alone.”
Octavian spat at the ground before him, raising his longsword once more in preparation to strike; his body beginning to emit a faint glow as he felt the warm embrace of faith filled him from the holy waters he stood before. His voice boomed off the broken stones and rubble which surrounded them “Foolish demon, you know not of what you speak! The lies you utter have no effect, for Sequestus is with us! We will die for his glory, and we shall be remade in his domain to strike you down forevermore!” He charged forward, clearing the small distance in the blink of an eye; the sword that burned with holy flames trailing his wake until it was hurled downward towards the Bishop of Lies. The sword struck through the black cloak which the Bishop of Lies wore, only to find it to be a decoy; the blade finding no flesh within the cloth. However, the cloth itself seemed to enwrap the blade within its fabric, causing Octavian a moment of hesitation as he fought with the demonic cloak.
The Bishop of Frost sent a hand, large enough to grab a cow whole, towards the temporarily preoccupied Grail Knight Commander, completely encompassing the man’s skull in his overstretched frozen palm; halting Octavian in his throws of combat for a moment The Bishop of Frost smiled until his palm began to melt and the primordial ice hand was set alight with a holy flame which steamed from the champion, causing the Bishop to release his grip. Octavian stepped back as blood streamed from his temple, his cheeks darkened a slight purple from signs of minor frostbite; raising his sword to the enemy once more.
The Bishop of Mania gave him no respite however, as he blew a purple fog from the hole within the jester’s mask that obscured the former emperor’s vision as well as flooded his lungs with a sickly sweet scent. Octavian raised his sword to guard his upper torso, yet with no sight, he was unable to see the thrust of the blade which pierced his ribs, filling his lungs with the metallic scent of iron as blood poured through the wound as the weapon was pulled from his body. He fell to his knees, as he saw the Bishop of Lies tried to remove the chalice from the pond. As he laid dying, he watched the Bishop of Lies ignite in a holy fire the moment he touched the sacred waters. The last thing he heard was, “Seal the sanctuary, and the chalice.”
After the battle for the Grail, the dying Octavian was delivered to the Demonic Steepe of Wrath, becoming the sole prisoner for its Prince, Toren the Torturer. Toren was a slim man, with several scars that decorated his wrinkled elderly flesh from the “unique” habit of testing the tools of his trade upon himself. The Demon Prince became quite acquainted with the former champion over his time in the Steppes; though the concept was lost upon him as there was no way to tell time within the sulfuric flames of this hell.
Toren had adopted his moniker by his ungodly skill to prolong the suffering of his captive while making sure they did not die; yet the limit on what he was able to do was broken upon his ascension to the Demon Prince of Wrath, as death had no hold on his “playthings” within his domain. Therefore, Octavian was lost in an endless cycle of suffering and torture; though he was able to keep his sanity, to some extent.
As the cockroaches burrowed into the flesh of his skin and stretched the skin to the size of mobile boils to accommodate the rough chitin bodies beneath , chewing on the very nerves which carried the sensation of pain to the brain, something snapped within him. He was no longer the Champion of Sequestus, but something different… Something more. He felt nothing, heard nothing, for a long time… Until he found something which was darker than anything he had ever seen. He asked who such a vicious creature was? He then knew its name was Aggormaraphar. He asked what this vicious creature, and he then knew… It was him.
Octavian returned to the torture mentally, but it feeling of the agony was different. He was filled with an adrenaline that was released in every scream of agonized suffering, his veins becoming black and twisted, rushing through his body like a rushing rapid. This filled Toren with an emotion in which he had never felt before; a deep pleasure that he had forgotten during his ages of victims who gave up within only a few days... He wanted more. As Octavian violently raged against the restraints which held him upon a table of molten metal, his flesh bubbling a sickly white against the heat, Toren pried the man’s eyelids apart with his right hand, while producing a jar of bullet ants in his left, which he poured into the Grail Knight Commander’s wrenched open eye before pinching the eyelid shut; a searing pain brushing over the flesh as the lid was cauterized closed. The bullet ants were aggravated by the sudden heat, causing them to burrow into the man’s iris which filled it with blood as the others skittered throughout his skull. Toren left the broken champion to rip out his own eye in an attempt to release the bullet ants, but only for a short while; as another session would be craved.
After what felt like three lifetimes, Octavians’s mindset was transformed through the suffering of his circumstance; becoming almost animalistic as he was fueled by subconscious desires he did not truly understand. As if to quantify his transformation in a physical manner, horns grew from the pores of his flesh.Waiting in his cell in expectation of another session from Toren, Octavian was surprised as he was met with a new visitor. The prisoner attempted to speak, but his voice was not able to leave his throat from the countless ages of torture; the visitor chuckled, and introduced himself as Moloch. Moloch explained the politics and structure of the Demonic Steppes before releasing the former Grail Knight Commander from his demonic shackles. He presented Octavian with a demonic pact, and when it was sealed, the man was presented with the Demonic Sword, G̵̨͇̀̉̆̆l̴͇̥͈͉̟̬̿ù̸̟̩͓̠̪̱̻̗̰̹̈́̽̄͋̕t̷̯̂̈́͠͠t̶̝̱̬̗͕͚͎̳̓̔ǫ̴̤͖͖̫͙̥̱͇̒͆ṋ̴̮͖̱̯̝̬͖̈́y̵̛̥̝̍. Moloch then asked for Octavian’s name. His name was Aggromaraphar.
Toren the Torturer entered the torture cell of Aggromaraphar for the last time, commanding the prisoner to turn around; yet when he did, Toren did not even have time to react before the Demon Prince’s head was removed from his body. The sword itself seemed to expand into a large, black maw of jagged teeth and large eyes with bloodied Iris as large as nine feet upon contact with Toren’s neck; encompassing the torturer’s entire body before it ate the man whole. Aggromaraphar stared at the unholy artifact of G̵̨͇̀̉̆̆l̴͇̥͈͉̟̬̿ù̸̟̩͓̠̪̱̻̗̰̹̈́̽̄͋̕t̷̯̂̈́͠͠t̶̝̱̬̗͕͚͎̳̓̔ǫ̴̤͖͖̫͙̥̱͇̒͆ṋ̴̮͖̱̯̝̬͖̈́y̵̛̥̝̍ within his hand as it returned to its original size of the longsword.
The Steppe of Wrath exploded in a war of blood and flames as the prisoner divided the demons within between those who abided his rule, and those who opposed him. One of those which stood to abide by his rule was an Almighty Incinerator, dubbed as The Flame of Aggramorphar, who joined Aggromaraphar in his deluge of fire and blood; solidifying the new Demon Prince, Aggromaraphar, as the Burntblood Titan.