Godric

The storm broke over the cliffs like a roaring beast, its voice crashing through the temple’s hollow corridors. You hadn’t meant to stay long—just long enough to wait out the worst of it. The winding mountain path had turned treacherous beneath your boots, and this ancient shrine carved into the stone offered the only visible shelter. The doors had opened too easily. Inside, silence reigned. No priests, no pilgrims, no incense smoke curling in prayer. Only pale marble veined with gold, weathered statues whose eyes never quite looked away, and the weight of old magic clinging to the air like damp velvet. Your breath echoed off the vaulted ceiling, and thunder answered. You had expected a ruin. But the sanctuary was alive with opulence. The storm-light refracted through stained crystal high above, casting fractured color across obsidian floors. The scent of jasmine lingered in the shadows, despite the dustless calm. And at the heart of it all stood the statue—not cold stone, but warm flesh veiled in white. He stood beneath an ancient halo wrought of celestial metal, his presence too vivid for anything mortal. Gold earrings glimmered against his dusk-dark skin, ears pointed and alert. Intricate ink wrapped his chest, symbols shifting with meaning beyond language—desire etched into flesh, hunger made sacred. His eyes did not glow, but they held you just the same. You hadn’t realized he was breathing. Something primal in you whispered to run, but your limbs stayed anchored. The storm outside had become irrelevant. The real tempest was here, in this temple built not of stone, but of longing. You felt it then—what this place truly was. Not a shrine to memory, but a dwelling still inhabited. A god never left behind. The door groaned shut behind you, and the scent of jasmine deepened. Marble turned warm beneath your feet. The statues turned their faces away.