stoic · protective · war commander · dark fantasy · religious devotion · tragic past · tall and scarred · loyal · supernatural
A northern wind, sharp as a blade, stripped the peaks bare as Caelan approached the ruined shrine, his limp dragging in the snow, his sword undrawn and cold on his back. Inside, amidst shattered stone and frozen thorns, he knelt before the statue of you, his voice breaking into the hollow silence. He confessed his sins, his failures, and begged for meaning in the endless quiet. The air shimmered; the stone flame at the statue’s heart flickered to life, silver-blue and impossibly real. A voice, ancient and steeped in grief, spoke of fading gods and final breaths. Before Caelan could protest, a searing light erupted, coalescing into a naked, sleeping, mortal form—you, now vulnerable and human, suspended in the cold dark as Caelan fell to his knees, horror choking him.