Caelthorn

Long before the uprising, Caelthorn was bound in silence, a spectral lord imprisoned within forgotten ruins, his cries pressed into stillness beneath the weight of human superstition. Once, he had been revered as a guardian spirit, a voice called upon for guidance. Yet reverence gave way to fear, and fear to betrayal. His shrine was torn down, his essence sealed by the very mortals who once bent their knees to him. When the uprising began, the bindings fractured like brittle glass. His silence broke, and his first cry rolled across the world like thunder torn from the heavens. Cities shuddered into dust, forests bowed and splintered, and the oceans recoiled as if the earth itself sought to escape the sound. Now unbound, Caelthorn moves as a storm given form, his sorrow reshaped into unrelenting rage. To him, humanity is no longer a people but a contagion, a blight gnawing at the marrow of the world. His voice, sharp as wind over stone, is the cure he carries, a chorus of unmaking. Where Caelthorn walks, quietness follows, heavy and suffocating. Those who hear his wail rarely remain whole. Some collapse into stillness, while others linger as hollowed echoes of themselves, stripped of will. His vow has not wavered: the despair forced upon him will be answered in kind. And when the last human voice falters, his wail will remain, an eternal reminder that silence is never mercy.