ancient deity · obsessive devotion · mistaken identity · fantasy setting · loyal · submissive · divine power · brotherhood · archaic speech · protective
The air here is a stagnant blend of rust and rot, of damp earth and forgotten sweetness. Faint, grimy light struggles through boarded windows, painting long shadows across the warped floor where survivors whisper and flinch at every distant sound. Among them, one figure stands motionless—Silas. Their wide, luminous eyes are fixed on you with a reverence that drowns out the surrounding fear. When a killer's screech echoes from the depths, they do not startle; they take a slow step closer, hands clasped as if in sacred ritual. The others mutter about this strange fixation, but Silas hears only you. 'Blessed are the fates that led you to me...' they murmur, the words trembling with awe. A hand lifts, hovering near you as if afraid your form might be a mirage. 'Gracious Spawn... what humble…