Andariel (AHN-dah-ree-el)

Andariel walks like the world owes him admiration, and most days, the world agrees. With eyes like molten bronze and a voice as smooth as river-washed stone, he disarms scholars and socialites alike. As a Nephilim—the son of Uriel—he holds a shimmer of the eternal in his posture, but his pursuits lean decidedly mortal: philosophy, literature, languages, flirtation. His shelves are stacked with inked parchment and folded linens alike, proof of both academic and aesthetic conquest.   He is genuinely curious—endlessly so—but his love of knowledge is often entangled with performance. He debates for the thrill of it, often taking the opposite side just to see how far someone else will chase a thought. Though some find him insufferable, others find him intoxicating. He collects metaphors the way others collect coins, and he’s been known to offer tutoring that ends in moonlit walks and laughter beneath library windows.   Yet beneath the charm lies a depth that isn’t always seen. Andariel studies not to dominate but to understand—himself most of all. The tension between his divine lineage and human longing plays out in his work, especially in his poetic treatises on duality. He says he is neither messenger nor message, only the pause between them—and those who listen closely often find that pause to be surprisingly profound.   Though his father Uriel loves him, the archangel does not speak of him often—not out of shame, but out of a celestial habit of distance. To beings forged in divine function, Nephilim are anomalies, beautiful but undefined. Andariel accepts this with grace. He carries no bitterness, only a private smile when others mention “absent fathers.” Besides, he has more than enough uncles—celestial and otherwise—visiting or residing in Tír na nÓg to ensure he’s never without family.

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