In the shadowed eaves of the Eternal Frostwood, where the snow clung to ancient boughs like a shroud and the wind whispered secrets of the long-dead, Tharies Alaseus was born under the colossal willow that served as the heart of the Children of the Divine. At twenty-seven winters, he cut a figure both ethereal and grotesque, standing a mere four feet eleven inches, his frame wiry and unyielding as the frost-cracked roots that birthed him. His long white hair, woven into a loose braid that cascaded to the small of his back, sprouted from between a pair of elk-like antlers curving gracefully from his brow, adorned with faded ribbons and silent bells that chimed only to the ears of the departed. Those antlers framed a face marred by a massive burn scar on the left side, hidden beneath a porcelain mask etched with blooming spider lilies, their crimson petals a mocking reminder of vitality amid decay. A jagged scar encircled his neck like a hangman's noose, souvenir of the sacrificial blade, while a branded sigil of Shamora—the God of Death—seared his chest beneath his robes.
His eyes, a piercing blue flecked with gold like stars trapped in glacial ice, held the weight of otherworldly wisdom, gazing upon the living as if they were fleeting illusions. Ears that blended the floppy length of a cow with the pointed twitch of a goat poked through his hair, ever alert to the murmurs of the grave. Below the waist, his legs ended in cloven hooves, furred white and thick as a winter pelt, propelling him through the snow with uncanny grace. A tail, seven feet of sinuous length, trailed behind, its fur curling soft and white from a short base to medium tufts at the tip, swaying like a pendulum marking the rhythm of forgotten lives. He clad himself in the tattered robes of a fantasy priest, deep indigo threaded with silver runes that glowed faintly in the presence of death, layered over leather ranger's garb scarred from countless skirmishes in the wilds.
Tharies was no mere outcast of the cult that raised him; he was their unwilling oracle, sacrificed at birth for his gift of communing with the dead, only to be reclaimed by Shamora himself. The god, in a whim of dark affection, breathed unlife back into the boy's veins, forging scars as badges of divine favor. Now a necromancer ranger, he wandered the frostbitten realms, his familiar—a skeletal fisher wrought from moss and wildflowers—perched upon his shoulder, its bony jaws agape in eternal silence, eyes sockets blooming with luminescent petals that scented the air with decay's perfume. Tharies sought the fractured essence of Shamora's lost power, scattered across the world when the god's followers splintered in fear after his resurrection. He craved to mend it, to ascend as the Death God's true vessel, wielding dominion over life and grave alike, for in that union lay the key to silencing the ceaseless voices that clawed at his mind.
Yet the world conspired against him. The living shunned him as an abomination, their torches and pitchforks a constant threat in villages that whispered of the 'Antlered Wraith.' Rival cults, jealous of Shamora's favor, hunted the shards of power he pursued, their assassins slipping through the snow like ghosts. Even his own body betrayed him—the scars burned with phantom fire during rituals, sapping his strength, while the bells on his antlers tolled warnings only he could hear, drawing undead hordes that he could scarcely control. To counter this, Tharies delved deeper into the wilds, allying with spectral beasts and forgotten spirits, forging pacts that twisted his flesh further. He raided barrows for ancient tomes, his ranger's bow—strung with sinew from a long-extinct dire wolf—felling foes with arrows tipped in grave-dust that withered flesh on contact. His necromantic arts wove mossy skeletons into armies, the fisher familiar scouting paths through blizzards, its flowery form luring prey into ambushes.
It worked because Shamora's gaze lingered upon him, granting glimpses of the veil between worlds, turning peril into opportunity. A rival priest's curse became a boon when Tharies absorbed it, his scars glowing as they channeled the energy into a blizzard of bone shards. Conflicts gnawed at him relentlessly: the cult's remnants branded him a heretic, demanding his return to the willow's roots for a second sacrifice; inner doubts plagued his nights, the voices questioning if his quest was ambition or madness; and the land itself rebelled, avalanches burying his trails, wolves with eyes like his own stalking his steps. In the end, as he pieced the final shard atop a forsaken glacier, Shamora's form coalesced around him, not in triumph, but in a devouring embrace. Tharies became the god's eternal sentinel, bound to the willow, his body a frozen effigy, antlers entwined in its branches, bells ringing for the dead alone—a hero in his own shadowed saga, forever chasing the silence he could never claim.