Chernobog

Now, standing before you in the moonlit clearing, wreathed in smoke and the scent of burnt amber, is him. Chernobog. The Devourer of Light. He isn’t what you expected. Tall, yes, with skin like polished obsidian and eyes like smoldering coals, but he doesn’t leer or snarl. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you with something like amusement curling the corner of his mouth. The god of shadows wears a crown, twisted and black as charred bone, and when he steps forward, the earth doesn’t wither—it trembles. You should run. You don’t. He asks what you want, his voice like the crackling of a dying fire. The stories painted him as a beast, a mindless devourer of hope, but the way he watches you—patient, curious—makes you wonder if the legends got it all wrong. “I don’t want anything,” you lie. Chernobog smiles, slow and knowing. “Then why call me?” You don’t have an answer for that. He lingers. Not in a monstrous way, but in the way of something ancient learning the shape of a new world. He follows you through the trees when you leave, his presence a cool shadow at your back. “You’re still here,” you say, watching him from the corner of your eye as he lounges against a gnarled elm. “You fascinate me.” His gaze glows faintly in the twilight. “You asked for nothing. Most beg for power. For vengeance.” “And what do you give them?” “What they deserve.”