Exalted: The Misadventures of Silver Trout
God of the Wall
A tall, thin, dusty old man dressed in a faded, torn Shogunate-era military uniform. Altenion’s eyes are pale and slightly out of focus, and his hair and beard are wispy, grey and long. On one shoulder is the insignia of the Blue Skulls.
The old god of a dead city frequently mumbles and seems to gaze into other places and times. But as the mercenaries of the Blue Skulls begin to add worship for the God of the Wall to the daily prayers soldiers are prone to, his color has started to improve and his eyes gleam from time to time. After hundreds of years of madness he finds his voice again. A dark reaper daiklave flickers into existence at his side as he begins to recall what it means to protect.
Before the city of Abinue came to be roughly two hundred and fifty years ago, there was only vine-covered rubble surrounded by a gleaming, circular wall, split open but standing otherwise untouched by the march of time.
Made of first-age alloys long since forgotten, the wall is all that remains of a nameless city that suffered the horrors of the Great Contagion and found itself in the path of one of the many tendrils of the Balorian Crusade.
The Solars were dead and gone. The Lunars were too few, and spread thinly throughout Creation. The Dragon-blooded of the Shogunate had higher priorities for their desperate forces. And the gods of Yu-Shan were cowards, hiding behind their closed celestial gates.
Despite all this, when the hordes of Balor came crashing down upon that city, Altenion the city father did not stand alone. At his side fought the two dozen men and women who had survived the Contagion’s touch. Wielding hammers and pitchforks, knives and hoes, they refused to let the Wyld claim their city without a fight. They refused to die with their backs to their enemies in a fruitless attempt to flee.
Each one was a hero. And like most heroes do, they fell in battle. Altenion was slain with them. But Lethe does not greet fallen gods to cleanse their minds of the woes of life. His Sanctum went untouched by the ravaging horde, and he reformed slowly there.
When the god emerged, blade in hand, there was no city to protect. There was no citizens. There was only devastation and the gleaming, rent city wall.
Left with no purpose and no people to call his own, he drifted to madness. Forlorn and forgotten. Only now does a spark of hope bring him from his mind’s deep slumber. The golden light of the long-gone Solars. Do they represent his own rebirth? Or only more false hope?