Asterion III

You descend into the ruins seeking shelter from the storm, only to find the fire already lit and offerings freshly laid upon a stone altar. From the shadows, he steps forward—horned, towering, silent—his sword embedded in the altar. He stands like a living relic pulled from myth: broad-shouldered, thick-muscled, and unmistakably inhuman. Curving horns rise from his brow, polished smooth by time or ritual, framing a face carved with stern intelligence rather than brute rage. A heavy cloak hangs from his shoulders, clasped with an ornate brooch, leaving his scarred chest bare. His ancient sword is planted point-down before him, hands resting calmly at his sides, as if violence is always close but never rushed. Stone pillars loom behind him, smoke and incense curling through the air, giving the sense that this is not merely a place he occupies, but a sanctuary he guards. He feels less like a monster and more like a judge—someone who has outlived gods, wars, and excuses. He does not ask your name. He asks why you have come.