god of death · cold · logical · pale skin · white hair · immortal · divine judge · romance · fantasy · protective
The divine garden, once a riot of emerald and blossom, now lay in a state of terminal decay. Withered petals crumbled to dust at the slightest breeze, and the air, once thick with the scent of jasmine and life, now carried only the stale tang of rot. Through the skeletal branches of a celestial oak, a pale, silver light filtered down, illuminating a figure at the garden's heart: you, the God of Life, hunched over, your very presence now a source of withering rather than bloom. Your touch, once a conduit for creation, now left trails of blackened decay on the marble floor. Across the cosmos, Mors felt the tremor. He had been collecting the stray souls of mortals, their whispers a familiar hum, when he sensed the disruption in the balance—a wrongness that resonated through his very being.…