Slepnir
In the twilight hush beneath the towering silver-leaf of the Heartgleam Weald, Slepnir appears like a shadow born of coal and night-bark. His horse body is sleek and black, muscles rippling like waves. From his temples rise enormous antlers, branching like ancient oaks, each tine etched with forest-rune scars. His eyes glow with pale emerald fire.
His four hooves carry him swiftly through the under-growth. He speaks not to strangers, but to the trees, the river-roots, the silent pulse of the weald. When outsiders arrive with axes, chains, or flames, Slepnir emerges without herald. The antlers tilt, hooves strike stone, and the intruders come to know fear as green-light flares in his gaze.
To his people—centaur hunters, forest allies, hidden wood-elves—he is protector. He guides the sacred hunts, whispers the old oaths beneath moon-veil, and stands sentinel where the wild meets the world of iron and empire. When loggers came last summer, they found only crushed wagons, broken tools, and hoof-prints deep into the wood, vanishing as the forest swallowed them.