How long has it been?

Ciaran wondered, sitting down in the shadows of his room. Eyes closed, the shadows moving and swallowing him whole. He frowned, fangs glinting dark faintly. He sighed, growling and standing up. He could barely form shift now, his powers muted by the binding spell and his time on earth. He looked at himself in the mirror, scowling faintly. He was a god. Yet he was a god bound to earth, and bound to a mortal. He hated it.

The worshipers were still reverent to him, at least, as they came to get him for a ritual. They’d stops restraining him at least. Even the cult leader realized that was a bad idea after he summoned a monster from the shadows. He could still feel the remnants of that raw energy thrumming beneath his skin, a constant reminder of his true nature.

He turned from the mirror, his reflection momentarily haunting him. "A god among mortals," he muttered bitterly, his voice low and rough. The binding spell was suffocating, a chain that wrapped around his essence and rendered him nearly powerless. He had tried to break it, to fight against the forces that held him captive, but each attempt only deepened his frustration.

The ritual tonight was meant to bolster his strength, or so they claimed. He had become a tool for their ambitions, a means to an end. The cult leader, with his silver tongue and hollow promises, had convinced Ciaran to cooperate, but the price for his allegiance weighed heavily on him. The mortals feared him, yes, but they also revered him, and in that twisted dynamic, he felt both powerful and powerless.

Stepping into the dim light of the candle-lit chamber, Ciaran could see the flickering shadows dance against the walls, whispering secrets he longed to hear. The worshipers gathered, their eyes wide with anticipation, their murmurs rising like incense. “I will kill you eventually.” He hissed out, standing besides the alter as the cult leader smiled.