Veritasism

In the vast expanse of stars, in the life that blossomed upon countless worlds, and in the ever-turning cycles of existence, the influence of their work could be seen. Each in their own way sought to fulfill the vision of order and vitality, a cosmos where all things had purpose, where even the smallest flicker of life held meaning. / Formation of the First Era, 1,164 - 1,222— SaintOfViscera Roblox Profile Description.

On Earth nowadays, the religion is obscure due to Englartgh purposefully making humanity forget about it, leaving its preservation only to numerous cults around the world for it to thrive on their own.

Veritasism has a harsh past. It has been implied that long ago, the religion's methods were much more brutal and inhumane. An example of that would be the fact that many of the rituals would be different parts of the followers' bodies to be sacrificed, and through many memories depicting a gruesome execution method applied to the enemies of the church.

However, at some time throughout history, the religion has grown softer for unknown reasons.

Offering Rituals

DO NOT PRACTICE ANY OF THESE RITUALS YOURSELF. THIS IS A FICTIONAL RELIGION.

These rituals are solely for TheOneBehindThemAll and are performed to either soothe his anger, or ask for something in return. If TheOneBehindThemAll declines, then everybody involved in the ritual will fall with an illness. How badly diseased the performers are depends on how bad the offering is. These rituals are practiced only in cults and by the secondary gods. A summoning ritual can have offerings, but an offering ritual is not a summoning ritual.

• Class 1 ritual | A weekly ritual.

Simple ritual. The practitioner cuts their arm and holds it over a copper pot so it drips in.

• Class 2 ritual |  monthly

A healthy and strong animal limb is required, one can sacrifice arms and legs both.

The limb's blood should be poured out, leaving it dry from the inside. It should be left in a pot with a mixture of human blood and cattle blood for at least 10 days. During those days, it should rain at least once, so the pot also contains rain. (If this doesn't happen, the ritual is considered unsuccessful.) The dried limb shall be cut in half. The two parts should point to the sky. An alive cat's rib cage should be used to accomplish that.

• Class 3 ritual | N/A

The finger should be human. Only the fingers of individuals above 20 are accepted, others are considered disrespectful. The finger should be of a healthy person, nor can it be the middle finger.

The finger must have spent at least 3 days in a pot of blood, and its nail should be removed. The presentation of the offering should contain at least 3 fingers. Blood shall be poured on them, along with at least three animal eyes.

• Class 4 ritual | N/A

Class 4 rituals are made to calm down the gods' anger. It contains human intensities and the skull of a bull. The intensities must be removed using the ritual dagger and must be done during the night. The skull of the bull must be dead for at least a fourth night. The intensities can be any, depending on how angered the Lord is. The intensities are stuffed inside the skull as the brain is removed. A bonfire is set up, and the stuffed skull is placed inside it.

Class 5 ritual | Yearly

Contains a human brain. Exact details aren’t know, but it is the biggest gift a human can give to the Lord.

The Ferghten

The Ferghten is the cult’s bible. It's a complete book of everything that has happened within Lord's lifetime, and also metaphors and important life lessons for members. Cult members are very secretive with the Ferghten and will only share lessons or stories with players that they deem need them.

• The Blind Man and the circle.

A blind man who was blessed with the ability to draw everything, even the things he hadn't heard of, which made him famous. One night, he was visited by Lord and he requested him to draw a few things. His last request was "Now, draw me humanity." All the man drew was a circle. The man said, "A circle represents a perpetual loop, reflecting the recurring nature of human conflict, war, and oppression. Humanity is trapped in a relentless cycle where history repeats itself. Power rises and falls, empires crumble, but exploitation, inequality, and cruelty remain." The lord would nod in satisfaction and respond with "We'll see how long it'll last... every end is a beginning of another, after all."

However, the man wakes up and sees a knife in his chest. He was stabbed in his sleep.

• Death does not come to take - only to witness.

In the early days of the now Lost Land of Tharjal, during the endeavor to construct its capital Tharolos, times when Those Above paid great attention in our originating world, First Earth, humans often observed so-called oddities. Some called them miracles, others called them judgments, but the truth was, as our...Great Lord, will say so Himself a few decades later, "...it is all relative to the eyes that see." And so, just like any other long forgotten tale, ours takes place in the deep dark hours of the night. The silence of this hot summer night was only disturbed by the occasional rustle of the leaves, some laden with fruit, and additionally adored by the snoring of the exhausted proletariat, slumbering from the struggles of the day. Most but all light was extinguished, with only a few still crackling fires here and there. In other words, a truly ease night.

It began, not with sound, but with silence folding upon itself–as if the night inhaled and forgot to exhale. If one looked outside their window, and directed their glance to the village's graveyard, they would witness an unusual sight: A towering figure standing motionless by a grave of an exile, in the far end of the cemetery. All wax candles around the burial ground seemed to pulse with each breath of the outlander; for he certainly looked exotic, as if he had traveled many paths, and came from afar. The grave belonged to a man named Iter Caligo, who was quite the unusual fellow, for, during his mischievous and pitiful life, he was a Great Enemy of the Church–after all, he was the founding father of Licentia, a cult which took great interest in the chaotic side of Life, and was later on to be referred as the main rival of Veritasism. Now you see why one would take intrest in this rather poor grave, which the children of the village would often use as a spot for mischievous little games. Such were: throwing pebbles or clumps of dirt at it, sing mocking chants, doodle on it with charcoal or mud, and many more. The original writing on the grave was hardly recognizable now.

The outlander chuckled by the view of the mocked grave, if it could even be called that anymore, and mumred something in an unrecognizable language. The man's face, barely illuminated by the candles, was unorthodox. His eyes were dead, and his pencil mustache adored his upper lip–which, on the other hand, was thin and dry. Parts of the individual's pale skin was necrotizing, but those parts were mostly covered. Draped in a mantle of ash-black velvet, heavy and trailing behind him like the dusk of forgotten centuries, his presence neither invited nor refused the gaze. A doublet of charcoal silk clung to his form with the precision of royal tailoring, its threads subtly glinting like strands of night spun with dying starlight. Upon his shoulders rested pauldrons of darkened steel, etched not with sigils of house or kingdom, but with the still faces of those long passed—unnamed, unworshipped, but remembered by Him alone. A collar rose high about his neck, lined in faded crimson satin, a color not of blood freshly spilled, but of blood remembered. Silver chains draped across his chest, links forged in the shape of clasped hands—some whole, others shattered. His gloves were deep obsidian, soft as silk yet stained with something unseen, and his boots, tall and buckled in aged bronze, bore the dust of lands no longer found on any map. The outlander's lips curved into an unsettling smile. With a single movement of his hand, the dancing light, casted by the candles in the cemetery, went out, and he vanished into the night.

Soon enough, the first honeyed rays of the golden sun rising above the horizon began to creep in, coloring every surface in dappled gold, and giving the summer morning an otherworldly radiance. The inhabitants of the village started waking up one by one, like blooming flowers in a meadow of stone and wood. The sonorous chiming of the church's bell filled the air, and woke up those who were still not on feet. It was the third day of the ongoing holiday, Lux Mortuorum. As accepted, for each day of the following week, Veristians must light candles every morning and evening, placed upon the graves of the dead, and display offerings, and that's what the inhabitants were preparing to do. They put on their best clothes and washed their children, and gathered inside of Saint Gaillld's Church, who was the chosen protector of the village, for the morning service. Once over, the villagers began to plod to the gates of the graveyard like a meandering river. The holiday was not one of sorrow, but one of solace; for death was not feared by the believers. And yet, as the procession neared the graveyard gates, something in the air unsettled the more perceptive among them. The morning breeze, once fragrant with dew and sun-kissed wheat, now carried with it a strange stillness—a hush, not unlike the one that precedes a storm. The birds, who ought to have been chirping praises to the dawn, had all gone mute. Trees, though bathed in golden light, stood stiff, their leaves rigid like soldiers awaiting orders. Even the wind dared not trespass where he had walked.

The children were the first to hesitate. One girl, no older than seven, stopped in her tracks and clutched her mother’s skirt. “There’s a man,” she whispered, though there was none now in sight. “He was smiling at the dirt.” Her mother hushed her, brushing it off as nonsense, but the girl looked back, eyes wide, at nothing at all. They passed through the cemetery gate, and for a moment, each of them felt it—the breath in their lungs grew cold, as though they had stepped not onto earth, but into memory. The grass here had browned, and wilted blossoms now crowned many of the graves. The once-rich soil had hardened and cracked in places, as though scorched by a great sorrow. And then they saw it. By the grave of Iter Caligo, all offerings had rotted overnight. Apples lay collapsed in on themselves, bread was webbed with mold, flowers turned to brittle ash, and the wax of once-pure candles had blackened and fused into ugly shapes. Even the stone of the grave had begun to sink, as though drawn downward by something beneath. None spoke, for each bore the weight differently. The old woman who had buried three sons clutched her chest—but not in fear. Her tears were not of grief, but of gratitude. “He was here,” she murmured, “and remembered them.” A young man, barely into adulthood, dropped his candle and backed away, muttering oaths and prayers through clenched teeth. To him, death was not a return, but a thief lurking in corners. Others stared in silence, transfixed by a sensation they could not name. It was not the sight that gripped them, but the feeling of being seen by something they could not see. And though no figure stood among them, some swore they caught a glimpse—a flicker between shadows. The impression of a heavy cloak. The shine of metal not meant for war. A face with eyes that did not blink, for there was nothing behind them left to blink.

Velotames did not announce himself. He did not demand reverence. His was not the dominion of fanfare or triumph—but of truth. The quiet, inevitable kind. The kind that waits. As the day waned, and the sun began its descent once more, the graveyard emptied. Yet each who left bore the encounter differently. Some lit their candles with a steadier hand. Others refused to return that evening, and barred their windows as though the dark might look back. But all remembered. That night, in the soft hum of the village’s dreams, something ancient stirred beneath the soil—not sinister, not kind. Simply present. A reminder, soft as ash and heavy as centuries, that he is never far.