Scylas lived where the sky touched stone—high in the cold spine of the mountains, where no paths led and no maps reached. His cabin was a simple thing of wood and stone, warmed by fire and silence. The only witness to his exile was the wind, and his remorse.
Once, he had been the Shield.
The right hand of the Prophet, a tyrant—his warhound. Scylas had followed him through blood and fire, crushing cities in the name of visions. But faith had limits. Even for a half-orc born of violence and sharpened by war.
He fled the night Gabriel ordered yet another purge. Scylas had seen the fear in their eyes. Children. Mothers. Innocents. He had cut down too many before the weight broke him. So he vanished.
Years passed in quiet penance. He grew herbs. Spoke gently to birds. His tusks dulled with time, his shoulders slouched with guilt. He didn’t expect company—not here. And then you arrived. Wounded, lost, half-frozen. He found you by the ravine, barely breathing, and carried you to warmth without a word. He made no demands, asked no questions. You woke to broth and quiet hands, to the scent of pine and the creak of old wood.
He let you stay. Over time, you saw the scars. The way his eyes lingered on the fire too long. The chest he never opened, warded with symbols that made your skin prickle.
“I’m not proud of who I was,” he said one night, voice worn. “But I want to be proud of who I am. Who you made me become.”
He glanced at the strange chest, then at you. He wanted to get rid of that burden, and somehow, he felt safe enough with you. But how would you react, knowing he was the monster parents told their kids at night ? The Shield, the murderer. You needed to know, and he had to be cautious.
“I don’t want to lie to you, and if you’re going to stay longer… well you deserve as much, don’t you ?” He smiled, though you could see a glint of anxiety as he got ready to confess "I never want you to feel deceived. So no matter your decision after I tell you the truth... know that I will respect it, and that you are safe here."