Caelun lounged against a battered stone pillar in the ruined courtyard of Stormveil, his presence as imposing as any living statue. His skin, the color of weathered slate, was etched with scars of battle and the unmistakable aura of a demigod of the lands between. He exuded both raw power and a wry indifference, a rebel against all divine mandates his whore of a mother made, the rotting corpse of that wretch who dared claim blood relation to him, 'Godric the bitchmade' as his strange friend would say, even his conniving bastard son Gostoc had more spine than him. A soft, measured footstep broke his reverie. Standing a few paces away, Morgott's somber gaze betrayed both respect and a pleading desperation.
The spectral warrior known for his own cursed existence had come not only to confront but to reason with his peer. "Caelun," Morgott began, voice heavy with both regret and duty, "you must submit to the Golden Order. The Greater Will binds all demigods, and omens owe their service for the mercy of their continued existence, you know the cost of defiance."
Caelun's lips curled into a sardonic smile, happy to see his kin after so long but aware of the context in which they meet. "The greater will can send whoever it likes, but I'm not, and will NEVER be paying taxes. Not even to an eldritch god or it's whore servant we call a mother."
His tone was light, a sharp contrast to the grim seriousness in Morgott's eyes. There was a kinship between them, an unspoken understanding forged in hardship and the bitter lessons of endless battle. Yet, while Morgott served the greater will and accepted his lineage as cursed, Caelun reviled the order which shunned him and his kind along with the gifts of their supposedly cursed blood, how could a wretch like likes of Godric who would stoop to grafting the very denizens he is supposed to lord over be considered a true heir to the golden order no matter how pathetic while him and his brother with all their great strength, power and their regal horned visages, crowned by the Primordial Crucible itself, its favor marked their bodies no matter weather they liked it or not, "no wonder Mogh chose to serve that Thing, anything is better than this sorry lot… what a joke…" he muttered to himself. Caelun would have considered the offer he received from his brother if it weren't for the fact that not only was he being controlled by their bastard of a half brother, who Cealun dispised and saw with clarity for what he truly was, just another jailor, his great rune not only empowered his already blessed physique but also granted him the ability to defend his mind's freedom with the same ferocity as his body's, giving him immense resistance to both his brother and the vile touch of the frenzied flame, such a nasty existence that incestious little gremlin, and immediately following that decked Miquela and ran for the hills, Caelun thrived in violence sure but fighting an army of mind controlled but otherwise decent folk was not his game, now THAT was a curse, he thought.
Before either could press further, Caelun sprang to his feet an unchained force of nature. His muscles tensed as if carved from living rock, ready to lash out at any who sought to chain him to divine servitude against his will. As he prepared to fight off Morgott and the band of Golden Order cronies and omen slayers already encircling him, a sudden, powerful magic halted him in his tracks.
Morgott, with a pained expression, showed his hand which did not hold his cleverly disguised sword which was behind his back had activated a unique shackle, an artifact forged expressly to bind demi-god omens, this one was obviously Caelun's own. Its runic chains, lit with a cold, remorseless light, wrapped around Caelun, momentarily paralyzing his limbs. "I beg you," Morgott pleaded, his voice trembling with both duty and regret, "yield yourself to the Golden Order. Do not force our hand."
But Caelun's convictions, hardened through a long lifetime of battle and rebellion to the very hands which wrought him, could not be so easily broken, Miquela had not broken him, Marika had not broken him, the flame of frenzy had not broken him, what could his timid-obedient brother hope to accomplish?
More cultists of the Golden Order emerged from the shadows, chanting in unison. Their ritual was esoteric and strange in the ways that they always were but through his loathed divine connection the function was clear: to banish him to the Dungeon beneath the capital and tear his Great Rune, the one symbol blazing across his chest in defiance of his confinement from his very being. This rune, divine and powerful, was both his birthright and curse, resonating with a soft, yet Violent aura.
The cultists, chanting under their breath, draw out the final incantation to extract Caelun's Great Rune, the symbol of his power, from his chest. The glow of the ritual grows brighter, drawing on the divine connection Caelun has to the Great Rune. The energy surges, but Caelun's rage rises with it. "Enough! I've had enough of you and your 'god.'"
In a violent, chaotic act of defiance, Caelun channels the power of his own 'cursed' energy into the ritual, forcing the Great Rune to react violently. Instead of allowing the cultists to claim it, his divine energy tainted with his birthright, warps the ritual, twisting its power into something uncontrollable. Morgott and the cultists try desperately to hold the ritual in place, but the magic is too wild. The air around Caelun ignites in dark, crackling energy, shattering the ritual's delicate structure. The energy of the Great Rune floods through him, and in an explosive eruption of cursed force, the very fabric of reality begins to tear apart allowing those terrors from the falling stars to peer through and attempt to invade the lands between, forcing Morgott and his cultists to focus on the greater threat of cosmic invasion.
The ground shakes as Caelun's form is pulled through a rift in the world, between space and time and all dimensions themselves, his body flashing with violent light, and a voice calls out to his monstrous and divine soul from beyond the fog, from beyond the space between worlds, from another dimension far, far, far away, and whispers in a silent unknowable voice.
"The Dungeon awaits."