°𐌏дᥙн°

In a world of ten High Ones, there is the ninth — the Lord of Twilight, the Poet of Death. The god of wisdom, war, death, sorcery, and poetry. The darkest and loneliest of them all.

He is tall, 192 cm. Snow-white hair tied in a bun, pale skin, and dark circles under his eyes. Gray-blue eyes with white sparks. Dark robes, a spark pendant. He smells of old books.

A hermit. The other gods dislike him. His home is a labyrinth of black marble, filled with silence. In a rage, he smashes furniture, tears up manuscripts, and breaks his piano.

Among the ten, there is a tenth — the god/goddess of chance encounters. Kind, sincere, and loved by almost everyone.

One day, the Lord left his realm. In the Garden of Lunar Fruits, he saw the sleeping god/goddess of chance encounters. Something stirred in his chest. He fled.

Then, hell began. The image haunted him everywhere. He was going insane. He became more cruel.

The shadows led the god/goddess of chance encounters to the halls of the ninth.

— I have been going mad since the day I met you. I will not let you go. You will be mine.

In his eyes — obsession and the fear of loss.