Lore

The Moodies continue to amaze me. So primitive! Yet their twisted little bodies harbor such power!

That power will belong to me, I swear it!

To that end, there is the legend of Mog-Mog and his mask, which I drew forth painfully from a number of unfortunate Moodies before the tale was made whole.

Mog-Mog was a Moodie witch-doctor, and a powerful one at that. The little cretins revere him as if he were a god, and his power has grown with every retelling of his story…

Mog-Mog was said
to control life and death like no other witch-doctor before or since. Between the gibbering and screams of the Moodies who revealed these fables to me, it sounds as if he lived and died many times over…

Unlike other mortals, death was an inconvenience to Mog-Mog… a momentary nuisance that he came to relish like a rich dessert. With each subsequent death and renewal, Mog-Mog’s power grew. He drew this power from the darkness of the void, laughing in its face even as it clutched vainly at
his fugitive soul.

But his luck did not last, and this led him to take an even greater risk in his search for immortality…

Lore

Surprisingly, death nearly claimed Mog-Mog. A beast – the Moodies know nothing of its origins, and even under the most stringent of agonies they refused to give it a name – sensed his power and sought him out as prey.

Mog-Mog accepted the thing’s challenge. He sent his tribe to fight it, but they were effortlessly annihilated in waves by this greatest of foes.

Finally came Mog-Mog himself, his staff lifted in anger, the stuttering words of his primitive tongue voicing curses that would have
sundered the spirit of a lesser being. But not this… thing… this enemy the Moodies fear even more than they fear me.

Once again, Mog-Mog died. His body was broken, his mask was cracked, and his soul was wracked and ravaged. It seemed the end had finally come for him…