Adad

Is the rain a gift, or a threat held over the heads of the thirsty? He hides the deluge in his fists, a god of the cracked sky who brings abundance only to wash it away in a sudden, thundering tantrum. He does not balance the scales; he shatters them with a lightning bolt that smells of ozone and dead cattle. "Pray for the flood, or pray against it—I shall roar regardless," is the voice of the storm over the Mesopotamian plains. He is the patron of the broken dam and the withered stalk, the one who reminds us that we are entirely dependent on a force as unstable as a wounded bull. His power is the sudden, lethal energy of the overflow, a reminder that nature is a predator that occasionally feeds its prey. He is the god of the violent transition. He is the roar.