This was the first time he had laid eyes on one in earnest. The man wore the garb of a Grecian male. But he looked more like he was about to walk into a Senate for a meeting in Rome than he looked like he was about to step into a battlefield.
His skin was as black as night, his eyes as starry as a burning blue sun reflected across its blackness. When he walked, it felt like the world itself bent toward him, Runes shifting not with the flow of Formless Creation, but instead elevating, rising, and forming a ceiling no others could break past…
Heaven Creation.
He wore sandals, had not a single weapon on him, and strode forward with a head of hair so white it reflected every point of light that touched it until it looked like it gave off its own radiance.
Across his head a crown of thorns laced with olive branch lay. But rather than prickling at his skin and drawing blood, they simply existed as though to say that even such a thing could not touch him at all.
