Slee
High on Mount Teslite’s slopes, where winds scream and clouds crackle with endless fury, Slee stands alone. His metal-rimmed goggles glow faintly in the electric haze; thick gloves wrap over thin rock-gnome arms, each fingertip scraped by the last strike of lightning. The infinite storm there is his workshop. Around him, kinalite stones hover in carved stone cradles, sizzling with captured arcs of thunder.
He has no throne, no grand audience—just the crack of storm-light and the hum of raw energy transferred into glowing crystals. The bronze gnomes of the Council look up at his peak with worry but know the work musr be done done to power their city. He channels the bolt, then guides it down through cables into Teslite’s heart, making the city breathe with light and hum with power.
At dawn he descends to the city, cloak whipped by winds, boots coated with mountain dust. Citizens see him as the progenitor to the life they now know: the rock-gnome who stood where mortals fear to climb, who coaxed lightning into machines. He says little. His storms speak louder. And when the lamps in Ikarus glow brighter than any dawn, the gnomes below remember: The storm is tamed and Slee is its guide.
Member of the Lost Priory.
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Man
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