Ousa
Ousa (a.k.a. The Pale Cloaked God)
Ousa, the Pale Cloaked God, is the Har’Akiri deity of death’s final claim—the stillness that follows the last heartbeat, the silence that descends when breath fades forever. He is the keeper of the end, the cold hand that neither judges nor guides, but claims. Once a compassionate consort of Ese, god of life, Ousa was a tender shepherd of souls, offering solace in their final moments. But under the corruption of the Dark Powers, he has become possessive, somber, and hungering—not cruel, but relentlessly still.
Where Neb ensures the dead walk their path, and Anu weighs their deeds, Ousa simply takes. His presence is like the hush after a storm or the feeling of walking alone through ancient ruins—the certainty that something has ended and can never return.
He is portrayed with a skeletal face behind a vulture’s golden death mask, robes of faded white trailing behind him like fog. His hands are always open and reaching, but they do not comfort—they claim. His silence is not peaceful but suffocating, as if he listens to every heartbeat and waits for it to falter.
Ousa’s presence is strongest in moments of plague, famine, or war—when death comes not one at a time, but in waves. Undead and restless spirits, especially those whose deaths were unnatural or unacknowledged, are drawn to him like moths to cold fire. Some whisper that Ousa no longer waits for death to come naturally, but sends out his agents to reap before the soul is ready.
Yet his clergy still serve a vital and sacred role. They do not weep or wail, for Ousa has no use for mourning. They prepare the body, perform the rites, and seal the spirit to its fate. They ensure that death is absolute and unbroken—for if the dead are not claimed, they may rise… and hunger.
Divine Symbols & Sigils
A black vulture perched atop a skull, wings half-spread—waiting, not flying.
Tenets of Faith
Temples to Ousa are ossuaries, necropolises, and plague sanctuaries. Often found beneath cities or built beside ancient battlefields, they are quiet and austere, lit by oil lamps and perfumed with embalming resins. The greatest of them—Ousa’s Pyramid—looms like a lighthouse for the dying, a silent monument where the veil between life and death wears thin.
Ousa’s priests are death-priests, embalmers, and plaguewardens, clad in bleached robes and masks of bone or vulture feathers. They do not fear death—they revere and enforce it. They are taught to speak little, move with deliberation, and act as the hand of finality. Some also serve as exorcists, putting down the unquiet dead who have defied Ousa’s grasp.
To know Ousa is to know that nothing lives forever, and that no soul escapes him in the end. He is not cruel, but he is never denied.
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