The Storm Bringer.

What a guileless name. Literal in senses that permeate an air of nausea in his realizations, that the physicality of his storms are not the extent of his damage. He is but a monster portraying himself as a gentleman, wrecking those in his path beneath the guise of brotherhood and love. Grief warped the truth of his loyalty into something vile and distasteful, and where Kaj's golden heart once beat was a broken glass vial spilling itself in acidic components across his vulnerable organs. For where once he saw only the good, the venerable of his life and cause, emotion had twisted the shroud and reflected the opposite. Even the strongest of men were mortal, and though Kaj had hoped to be alone in his sorrows, he is too virulent and tangible a presence to go unnoticed.

Thunder roils like a lion's throat, electricity sparking between charged golden filaments, uncontrolled as war was waged between mortal emotion and celestial aptitude. Muscles swell until prepped for a foe he cannot fight, gleaming with the sheen of sweat borne of his lengthy travels from the coast, illuminated by the shocks of pale blue emitting from his form beneath the storm clouds. He is unaware of his audience, nares filled with the tang of his magic, the brimstone of his surroundings. Caught in the web of his memories, of a thousand strong hearts and gentle natures, of his loneliness and uselessness as a stallion in contrast to his defining moments as a leader. But as he turns in a violent whirl of frustration, he seeks them, the awed participants to the break of his mentality. They glow in his light, pierced by the ethereal azure of his eyes as he falls upon them as an eagle might its prey. But they are innocent in their rapture, in the misgivings of one particular fae gazing upon him, breath stolen and hope undeserved by the mere mortal she thought him not to be.

The will required to restrain the storm, internal and external, nearly cauterizes his soul. They are undeserving of the anger he holds towards himself, unaware of the labyrinth of emotion he was incapable of traversing. Why had the Gods crafted him so inept in the most valuable of arenas? Nostrils flare beneath the eery glow of azure gems, but the winds die and the crackle of hot electricity buzzes to the sound of angry hornets before cutting into choking silence. Clouds depart, feathers bereft of any charge, and he stands before them proud in musculature but decrepit in heart. Silent. A golden wraith, a King devoid his crown in these wild lands, staring down the quiet gatherers in his presence. What words could be possibly conjure for them? Apologies, for drawing them to his side in worry, perhaps seeking a God he could never hope to be? For daring to be weak? Or was it instead a greeting he should utter? But the silence of his soul is a comfort, the aftermath his resting ground. Why would they care for his title?

Instead he is left silent, bereft of words, leaving to them the task of engagement. For he was clueless to what they could possibly want with a broken King on a starry night, desolate in the absence of his fury.