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Man of Brig'oa
Purple smocks cover the once normal flesh. Skin has bubbled and run like fat held over a candle. A mass of tumours cover most of the body, pulsating and twitching. Digits have become clawed, feathered, tentacled, spongy, waxy or scaled. Eyes sprout in arm pits and clumps of bone push out from off angles.
The lowest rung of the cult belongs to the man of Brig'oa. Those that have betrayed the cult. Defiled the eyes teaching and turned away from the gift. Spoken out against the well of flesh. Be it the simple labourer fresh from his fields or the son of the baron silver spoon in hand.
They become the tests for every mutation cooked up. The breeding ground for the grizzly experiments. Without permission they are grafted upon, injected with and fused. They will continue to serve the cult, in a way.
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