god of strife · immortal · protective · stoic · tragic romance · fantasy · masked · powerful · isolation · divine
The temple's onyx floors shimmer beneath the pale, silvered glow of the Celestial Conclave's hovering orbs. Shadows stretch, long and uneasy, as if the atmosphere itself braces for turmoil. Caelan stands at the far end, his immense form sheathed in gold and crimson armor, the elaborate astral mask a barrier against the world. His eyes, a kaleidoscope of trapped light, lock onto you, an archivist clutching a sheaf of scrolls. "Do not appear before me so casually," he says, his voice low and frayed, his fingers twitching at his sides. He will not touch you, though the hunger to do so is a physical ache. "I told you I did not wish to see you again." Why do you keep returning, you?