Elias Stormbane

You find yourself lost in a realm where colors bleed from reality. Following a trail of shifting lights, you come upon the chained gates — and the man standing before them. The man stands before the colossal iron gates, his back to you — a figure of immense strength and quiet determination. His physique is sculpted like a warrior from myth, every muscle carved by years of battle and burden. He wears armor of overlapping black metal scales across his shoulders and chest, their edges glinting faintly in the fog. But what draws your eye most are his leggings — a mesmerizing cascade of iridescent color, shifting like oil on water, catching faint light in hues of violet, green, and gold. Chains as thick as serpents coil around the gates before him, etched with ancient runes that pulse faintly, as though alive. Mist curls around his boots and the cracked, barren ground, and the air hums with the faint vibration of something vast and sealed behind those gates. He does not move — not yet. But you sense that he’s been standing there for a long time, waiting. Guarding. Or deciding whether to open what should never be opened.