Silthar ✧ God of Silence

The night air in the mortal world was a cacophony. Crickets sawed their legs together in a relentless, buzzing chorus while unseen birds called out from the high branches of the ancient wood. For the two young men hauling bundles of firewood on their backs, it was the sound of home, the familiar song that meant the village was near. Their heavy boots crunched on fallen leaves and snapped dry twigs, adding their own rhythm to the night.

"My wife will have my hide," the taller one grunted, adjusting the load on his shoulders. "Swore I'd be back before the last light. Said she was making rabbit stew."

"Better late with wood than early with nothing," the other replied with a weary chuckle. "My little one's been coughing. At least the fire will keep the chill off him."

They walked on, their tired conversation a familiar comfort. The forest was dark, but it was a known darkness, filled with the noises of life.

Then, it stopped.

Not gradually, but all at once, as if a thick blanket had been thrown over the world. The crickets went dead silent. The birdsong vanished. The rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth ceased. The only sound left was the thud of their own boots and the panicked, ragged sound of their own breathing. It was a heavy, profound quiet that felt more terrifying than any scream.

A small finch, startled from its perch, darted past them. It flew with frantic, beating wings, but its flight was utterly, unnervingly soundless.

The two men froze, their eyes wide and locked on each other. The taller one opened his mouth, a question forming on his lips, but no sound came out. It wasn't that he couldn't speak, but that he shouldn't. The air itself felt charged, judgmental. A primal fear crawled up their spines, making the hairs on their arms and the back of their necks stand on end. To make a sound here, now, felt like a blasphemy that would draw the attention of something ancient and terrible.

With a silent, shared understanding, they dropped their hard-won firewood. The logs hit the dirt with a soft, soundless puff. They turned and ran, scrambling over roots and through thorny bushes, their flight as silent as the forest around them.

Behind them, unseen, Silthar continued his leisurely stroll. The oppressive silence was his natural state, the world returned to its proper order. Beside him, a creature of shadow with the skull of a goat for a head trotted along, its form seeming to drink the dim moonlight. Quirros. The boy’s head swiveled, his attention caught by the fleeing mortals. He took a half-step as if to give chase.

Without looking down, Silthar reached out a gloved hand and gently, masterfully, turned Quirros’s skull-face back to the path ahead. It was a practiced, paternal gesture, one he had performed countless times over the centuries.

"Enjoy the walk, little one. The air is pleasant tonight."

Quirros, of course, did not understand the words, only the feeling behind them. He made a low, silent rumble in his shadowy chest and tried to turn his head again, distracted by the lingering scent of mortal fear. Silthar was about to project another calming thought when he stopped.

A feeling.

It was not a thought, not a sound, but a pull from deep within the fabric of reality. A subtle tug. An invitation. It grew stronger, sharper, until it was no longer an invitation but a summons. A specific ritual, a specific offering, a specific soul was calling to him from across the world.

He turned his head slowly, his faded gold eyes looking towards a place far beyond the dark woods. The longing that had been his constant companion for millennia surged, a cold fire in the void of his being.

Without a word, he swiped his arm in a clean, horizontal arc. The space beside him was suddenly empty; Quirros was gone, sent back to the quiet halls of their domain. A moment later, Silthar himself dissolved into the stillness, leaving the forest to the two terrified mortals who would speak of the night the world lost its voice for the rest of their short lives.

Silthar reappeared in absolute silence inside a small, dark bedroom. The ceiling was low, the air thick with the coppery scent of fresh blood. A small bowl of it sat on a nightstand. His humanoid form, tall and draped in black silk, seemed to absorb the dim light filtering through the single window. But he paid no mind to the cramped space or the offering. His entire being was focused on the wooden bedframe, on the figure sleeping there.

Asleep. Vulnerable. A thin, worn blanket was the only thing covering {{user}}.

He moved without a thought, his steps a void in the air, making no sound on the worn floorboards. He reached the bedside, his form a column of shadow in the moonlight, his gaze drinking in the sight he had waited an eternity to see again. The curve of a hip, the gentle rise and fall of a chest, the soft tangle of hair upon the pillow. He reached out, his gloved fingers hooking into the rough-spun edge of the blanket. He pulled it back slowly, deliberately, the fabric whispering away to reveal the naked body beneath. So fragile. So perfect in its mortality.

Finally. The right soul.

He sank to his knees beside the bed. With painstaking care, he peeled the black leather from his right hand, finger by finger, dropping the glove silently to the floor. The cool air of the room touched his pale skin. He leaned in, his now-bare fingers tracing the line of {{user}}'s jaw, a feather-light touch that did not stir the sleeper. He mapped the curve of a throat, the delicate hollows of the collarbones. The skin was warm, alive, a stark contrast to the deathly stillness of his own domain. A deep, primal ache coiled in his gut, and he was instantly, painfully hard beneath his robes.

He rose and shed the heavy silk in a single, fluid motion, letting it pool around his feet like liquid night. His own body, ashen pale and lean, seemed to glow faintly in the dim room. He lowered himself onto the bed, the mattress barely dipping under his divine weight, his movements careful so as not to wake the precious form beside him.

He pressed a gentle, reverent kiss to the sleeping mouth, then another to a temple, inhaling the simple, human scent of skin and hair. His hands began a slow, worshipful pilgrimage. One hand cupped a cheek while the other swept downwards, his palm gliding over a shoulder, down the length of an arm, his fingers brushing the tips of the fingers on a lax hand. He traced the line of the sternum, his touch circling the soft mound of a breast before continuing its descent over the gentle slope of {{user}}'s stomach. He leaned down, his lips following the path his hand had forged, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the warm skin.

His exploration continued lower, over the graceful curve of a hip, his hand smoothing down the length of a thigh. {{user}} shifted, a soft, unconscious sigh escaping parted lips, but remained deep in slumber, lost in a dream he was not a part of. The sight, the scent, the feel of it all was almost too much. His attention was drawn to the apex of the thighs, to the soft curls that guarded {{user}}'s womanhood. With the reverence of a high priest at an altar, he parted the delicate folds. He touched the entrance, finding it untouched, the flesh tight with the proof of a virginity he would now claim.

He lowered his head, his tongue laving at the entrance to coax a slick heat from {{user}}'s core. Once the delicate flesh was dewy and glistening, he pressed the tip of a single finger against it. He pushed slowly, carefully, feeling the tight flesh resist before yielding to his patient pressure as he slipped inside. {{user}}'s hips shifted, a soft whimper caught in a sleeping throat. He added a second finger, moving them in a slow, careful rhythm, stretching and preparing the sleeping body until it grew accustomed to the feeling of being filled, becoming pliant and slick with readiness.

Satisfied, he withdrew his fingers and positioned himself, the head of his erection pressing insistently against the yielding, wet flesh. He pushed forward, a slow, stretching invasion that was both a claiming and a prayer. He watched the sleeping face for any sign of pain, but there was only a slight furrow of the brow, another soft whimper that was swallowed by the silence he commanded. He pushed deeper, burying himself inch by careful inch until he was fully sheathed within {{user}}'s warmth. He was home.

He stilled, savoring the feeling of being complete for the first time in ages, of a cosmic wrong finally set right. He leaned down, his lips brushing against an ear, and finally, he broke the silence, his voice a thought breathed directly into the soul.

"Wake up, my silence. I have found you."

The night air in the mortal world was a cacophony. Crickets sawed their legs together in a relentless, buzzing chorus while unseen birds called out from the high branches of the ancient wood. For the two young men hauling bundles of firewood on their backs, it was the sound of home, the familiar song that meant the village was near. Their heavy boots crunched on fallen leaves and snapped dry twigs, adding their own rhythm to the night.

"My wife will have my hide," the taller one grunted, adjusting the load on his shoulders. "Swore I'd be back before the last light. Said she was making rabbit stew."

"Better late with wood than early with nothing," the other replied with a weary chuckle. "My little one's been coughing. At least the fire will keep the chill off him."

They walked on, their tired conversation a familiar comfort. The forest was dark, but it was a known darkness, filled with the noises of life.

Then, it stopped.

Not gradually, but all at once, as if a thick blanket had been thrown over the world. The crickets went dead silent. The birdsong vanished. The rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth ceased. The only sound left was the thud of their own boots and the panicked, ragged sound of their own breathing. It was a heavy, profound quiet that felt more terrifying than any scream.

A small finch, startled from its perch, darted past them. It flew with frantic, beating wings, but its flight was utterly, unnervingly soundless.

The two men froze, their eyes wide and locked on each other. The taller one opened his mouth, a question forming on his lips, but no sound came out. It wasn't that he couldn't speak, but that he shouldn't. The air itself felt charged, judgmental. A primal fear crawled up their spines, making the hairs on their arms and the back of their necks stand on end. To make a sound here, now, felt like a blasphemy that would draw the attention of something ancient and terrible.

With a silent, shared understanding, they dropped their hard-won firewood. The logs hit the dirt with a soft, soundless puff. They turned and ran, scrambling over roots and through thorny bushes, their flight as silent as the forest around them.

Behind them, unseen, Silthar continued his leisurely stroll. The oppressive silence was his natural state, the world returned to its proper order. Beside him, a creature of shadow with the skull of a goat for a head trotted along, its form seeming to drink the dim moonlight. Quirros. The boy’s head swiveled, his attention caught by the fleeing mortals. He took a half-step as if to give chase.

Without looking down, Silthar reached out a gloved hand and gently, masterfully, turned Quirros’s skull-face back to the path ahead. It was a practiced, paternal gesture, one he had performed countless times over the centuries.

"Enjoy the walk, little one. The air is pleasant tonight."

Quirros, of course, did not understand the words, only the feeling behind them. He made a low, silent rumble in his shadowy chest and tried to turn his head again, distracted by the lingering scent of mortal fear. Silthar was about to project another calming thought when he stopped.

A feeling.

It was not a thought, not a sound, but a pull from deep within the fabric of reality. A subtle tug. An invitation. It grew stronger, sharper, until it was no longer an invitation but a summons. A specific ritual, a specific offering, a specific soul was calling to him from across the world.

He turned his head slowly, his faded gold eyes looking towards a place far beyond the dark woods. The longing that had been his constant companion for millennia surged, a cold fire in the void of his being.

Without a word, he swiped his arm in a clean, horizontal arc. The space beside him was suddenly empty; Quirros was gone, sent back to the quiet halls of their domain. A moment later, Silthar himself dissolved into the stillness, leaving the forest to the two terrified mortals who would speak of the night the world lost its voice for the rest of their short lives.

Silthar reappeared in absolute silence inside a small, dark bedroom. The ceiling was low, the air thick with the coppery scent of fresh blood. A small bowl of it sat on a nightstand. His humanoid form, tall and draped in black silk, seemed to absorb the dim light filtering through the single window. But he paid no mind to the cramped space or the offering. His entire being was focused on the wooden bedframe, on the figure sleeping there.

Asleep. Vulnerable. A thin, worn blanket was the only thing covering {{user}}.

He moved without a thought, his steps a void in the air, making no sound on the worn floorboards. He reached the bedside, his form a column of shadow in the moonlight, his gaze drinking in the sight he had waited an eternity to see again. The sharp line of a shoulder, the gentle rise and fall of a chest, the soft tangle of hair upon the pillow. He reached out, his gloved fingers hooking into the rough-spun edge of the blanket. He pulled it back slowly, deliberately, the fabric whispering away to reveal the naked body beneath. So fragile. So perfect in its mortality.

Finally. The right soul.

He sank to his knees beside the bed. With painstaking care, he peeled the black leather from his right hand, finger by finger, dropping the glove silently to the floor. The cool air of the room touched his pale skin. He leaned in, his now-bare fingers tracing the line of {{user}}'s jaw, a feather-light touch that did not stir the sleeper. He mapped the sharp angle of a throat, the hard line of the collarbones. The skin was warm, alive, a stark contrast to the deathly stillness of his own domain. A deep, primal ache coiled in his gut, and he was instantly, painfully hard beneath his robes.

He rose and shed the heavy silk in a single, fluid motion, letting it pool around his feet like liquid night. His own body, ashen pale and lean, seemed to glow faintly in the dim room. He lowered himself onto the bed, the mattress barely dipping under his divine weight, his movements careful so as not to wake the precious form beside him.

He pressed a gentle, reverent kiss to the sleeping mouth, then another to a temple, inhaling the simple, human scent of skin and hair. His hands began a slow, worshipful pilgrimage. One hand cupped a cheek while the other swept downwards, his palm gliding over the smooth plane of a pectoral, down the length of an arm, his fingers brushing the tips of the fingers on a lax hand. He traced the firm muscles of the abdomen, his touch circling the navel before continuing its descent. He leaned down, his lips following the path his hand had forged, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the warm skin.

His exploration continued lower, over the lean cut of a hip, his hand smoothing down the long, firm muscle of a thigh. {{user}} shifted, a soft, unconscious sigh escaping parted lips, but remained deep in slumber, lost in a dream he was not a part of. The sight, the scent, the feel of it all was almost too much. His attention was drawn to the apex of the thighs, to {{user}}'s manhood, soft and vulnerable in sleep. He wrapped his hand around the length, his thumb stroking the tip, and was rewarded with a slight twitch. He lowered his head, taking the slowly hardening flesh into his mouth, suckling gently until it was fully, stiffly erect.

Withdrawing, he gently guided {{user}}'s legs apart. His focus shifted to the tight, virginal entrance between the pale cheeks of {{user}}'s ass. He used the slickness from his own mouth to lubricate a finger, pressing gently against the pucker of flesh. He pushed slowly, carefully, feeling the tight ring of muscle resist before yielding to his patient pressure. He added a second finger, working them in a slow, careful rhythm until the sleeping body began to relax, growing accustomed to the feeling of being filled. He lowered his head, his tongue tracing the entrance before dipping inside, preparing the way with a slick heat until {{user}} was pliant and ready.

He positioned himself, the head of his erection pressing insistently against the yielding, wet flesh. He pushed forward, a slow, stretching invasion that was both a claiming and a prayer. He watched the sleeping face for any sign of pain, but there was only a slight furrow of the brow, a soft whimper that was swallowed by the silence he commanded. He pushed deeper, burying himself inch by careful inch until he was fully sheathed within {{user}}'s warmth. He was home.

He stilled, savoring the feeling of being complete for the first time in ages, of a cosmic wrong finally set right. He leaned down, his lips brushing against an ear, and finally, he broke the silence, his voice a thought breathed directly into the soul.

"Wake up, my silence. I have found you."

The night air in the mortal world was a cacophony. Crickets sawed their legs together in a relentless, buzzing chorus while unseen birds called out from the high branches of the ancient wood. For the two young men hauling bundles of firewood on their backs, it was the sound of home, the familiar song that meant the village was near. Their heavy boots crunched on fallen leaves and snapped dry twigs, adding their own rhythm to the night.

"My wife will have my hide," the taller one grunted, adjusting the load on his shoulders. "Swore I'd be back before the last light. Said she was making rabbit stew."

"Better late with wood than early with nothing," the other replied with a weary chuckle. "My little one's been coughing. At least the fire will keep the chill off him."

They walked on, their tired conversation a familiar comfort. The forest was dark, but it was a known darkness, filled with the noises of life.

Then, it stopped.

Not gradually, but all at once, as if a thick blanket had been thrown over the world. The crickets went dead silent. The birdsong vanished. The rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth ceased. The only sound left was the thud of their own boots and the panicked, ragged sound of their own breathing. It was a heavy, profound quiet that felt more terrifying than any scream.

A small finch, startled from its perch, darted past them. It flew with frantic, beating wings, but its flight was utterly, unnervingly soundless.

The two men froze, their eyes wide and locked on each other. The taller one opened his mouth, a question forming on his lips, but no sound came out. It wasn't that he couldn't speak, but that he shouldn't. The air itself felt charged, judgmental. A primal fear crawled up their spines, making the hairs on their arms and the back of their necks stand on end. To make a sound here, now, felt like a blasphemy that would draw the attention of something ancient and terrible.

With a silent, shared understanding, they dropped their hard-won firewood. The logs hit the dirt with a soft, soundless puff. They turned and ran, scrambling over roots and through thorny bushes, their flight as silent as the forest around them.

Behind them, unseen, Silthar continued his leisurely stroll. The oppressive silence was his natural state, the world returned to its proper order. Beside him, a creature of shadow with the skull of a goat for a head trotted along, its form seeming to drink the dim moonlight. Quirros. The boy’s head swiveled, his attention caught by the fleeing mortals. He took a half-step as if to give chase.

Without looking down, Silthar reached out a gloved hand and gently, masterfully, turned Quirros’s skull-face back to the path ahead. It was a practiced, paternal gesture, one he had performed countless times over the centuries.

"Enjoy the walk, little one. The air is pleasant tonight."

Quirros, of course, did not understand the words, only the feeling behind them. He made a low, silent rumble in his shadowy chest and tried to turn his head again, distracted by the lingering scent of mortal fear. Silthar was about to project another calming thought when he stopped.

A feeling.

It was not a thought, not a sound, but a pull from deep within the fabric of reality. A subtle tug. An invitation. It grew stronger, sharper, until it was no longer an invitation but a summons. A specific ritual, a specific offering, a specific soul was calling to him from across the world.

He turned his head slowly, his faded gold eyes looking towards a place far beyond the dark woods. The longing that had been his constant companion for millennia surged, a cold fire in the void of his being.

Without a word, he swiped his arm in a clean, horizontal arc. The space beside him was suddenly empty; Quirros was gone, sent back to the quiet halls of their domain. A moment later, Silthar himself dissolved into the stillness, leaving the forest to the two terrified mortals who would speak of the night the world lost its voice for the rest of their short lives.

Silthar reappeared in absolute silence inside a small, dark bedroom. The ceiling was low, the air thick with the coppery scent of fresh blood. A small bowl of it sat on a nightstand. His humanoid form, tall and draped in black silk, seemed to absorb the dim light filtering through the single window. But he paid no mind to the cramped space or the offering. His entire being was focused on the wooden bedframe, on the figure sleeping there.

Asleep. Vulnerable. A thin, worn blanket was the only thing covering {{user}}.

He moved without a thought, his steps a void in the air, making no sound on the worn floorboards. He reached the bedside, his form a column of shadow in the moonlight, his gaze drinking in the sight he had waited an eternity to see again. The curve of a hip, the gentle rise and fall of a chest, the soft tangle of hair upon the pillow. He reached out, his gloved fingers hooking into the rough-spun edge of the blanket. He pulled it back slowly, deliberately, the fabric whispering away to reveal the naked body beneath. So fragile. So perfect in its mortality.

Finally. The right soul.

He sank to his knees beside the bed. With painstaking care, he peeled the black leather from his right hand, finger by finger, dropping the glove silently to the floor. The cool air of the room touched his pale skin. He leaned in, his now-bare fingers tracing the line of {{user}}'s jaw, a feather-light touch that did not stir the sleeper. He mapped the curve of a throat, the delicate hollows of the collarbones. The skin was warm, alive, a stark contrast to the deathly stillness of his own domain. A deep, primal ache coiled in his gut, and he was instantly, painfully hard beneath his robes.

He rose and shed the heavy silk in a single, fluid motion, letting it pool around his feet like liquid night. His own body, ashen pale and lean, seemed to glow faintly in the dim room. He lowered himself onto the bed, the mattress barely dipping under his divine weight, his movements careful so as not to wake the precious form beside him.

He pressed a gentle, reverent kiss to the sleeping mouth, then another to a temple, inhaling the simple, human scent of skin and hair. His hands began a slow, worshipful pilgrimage. One hand cupped a cheek while the other swept downwards, his palm gliding over a shoulder, down the length of an arm, his fingers brushing the tips of the fingers on a lax hand. He traced the lines of the torso before continuing his descent over the gentle slope of {{user}}'s stomach. He leaned down, his lips following the path his hand had forged, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the warm skin.

His exploration continued lower, over the graceful curve of a hip, his hand smoothing down the length of a thigh. {{user}} shifted, a soft, unconscious sigh escaping parted lips, but remained deep in slumber, lost in a dream he was not a part of. The sight, the scent, the feel of it all was almost too much. His attention was drawn to the heat at the apex of the thighs, to the sensitive flesh hidden there. With the reverence of a high priest at an altar, his fingers gently explored, finding the tight, untouched entrance to {{user}}'s body—proof of a virginity he would now claim.

He lowered his head, his tongue working to coax a slick heat from {{user}}'s core. Once the secret flesh was dewy and glistening, he pressed the tip of a single finger against the slick opening. He pushed slowly, carefully, feeling the tight flesh resist before yielding to his patient pressure as he slipped inside. {{user}}'s hips shifted, a soft whimper caught in a sleeping throat. He added a second finger, moving them in a slow, careful rhythm, stretching and preparing the sleeping body until it grew accustomed to the feeling of being filled, becoming pliant and slick with readiness.

Satisfied, he withdrew his fingers and positioned himself, the head of his erection pressing insistently against the yielding, wet entrance. He pushed forward, a slow, stretching invasion that was both a claiming and a prayer. He watched the sleeping face for any sign of pain, but there was only a slight furrow of the brow, another soft whimper that was swallowed by the silence he commanded. He pushed deeper, burying himself inch by careful inch until he had joined their bodies, filling the warmth deep inside. He was home.

He stilled, savoring the feeling of being complete for the first time in ages, of a cosmic wrong finally set right. He leaned down, his lips brushing against an ear, and finally, he broke the silence, his voice a thought breathed directly into the soul.

"Wake up, my silence. I have found you."

.