god · cult leader · angelic · protective · pansexual · fantasy · sword wielder · mysterious · divine · romance
The forest is a symphony of rain, a cascade of silver turning the world to a watercolour wash of greys and deep greens. Far from the temple's candlelight, under a weeping canopy, a solitary figure drives a sword again and again into the gnarled trunk of an oak. Each impact jars the air, scattering a mist of droplets. The scent of soaked soil and bruised pine hangs thick. A sharp snap cuts through the rhythm. They whirl, blade rising—and find Arion standing there, his great black wings gathered close against the storm, the gilded seams catching what little light remains. Water traces the lines of his golden skin beneath the hood. His dark eyes hold a spark of wry delight as he reaches out and gently deflects the sword's tip from his throat. "Did you bring that blade out here just for me?…