Syrasil

"Time is not your enemy, though you rage against it. It is not your friend, though you cherish its moments. Time simply is, it's a river that flows without pause, shaping and eroding, granting and taking. I do not stop it, I do not bend it, I only ensure that it runs true. Do not ask me to give you more of it. Instead, ask yourself what you will do with the time you already hold."

— Syrasil, to a mortal desperate to outrun their years

 

Running Sands

  Not a god of beginnings or endings, but of everything that lies between, the Measured does not carry an hourglass, for time is not a thing that can be held. Instead, he moves like the ticking of a clock; steady, deliberate, inevitable. To see him is to see time embodied, a figure neither young nor old, his face marked by faint lines that shift like shadows, as though the years cannot decide where they belong.   His presence is subtle but everywhere. He is the shadow lengthening as the sun sets, the first breath of dawn, the moment a heartbeat falters before it continues. His robes shimmer with the hues of twilight and dawn, a weave of colours that seem to shift with the turning of the seasons. Around his neck lies a chain carrying a single key, ornate and ancient, said to unlock the doors of eternity - a door that none, not even he, has dared to open.  

Fading Echoes

  The Measured speaks rarely, for his voice carries the weight of moments lost and futures yet to be. When he does, his words linger in the mind like an echo, simple yet profound. He does not command or decree. He reminds. He whispers truths that mortals often forget: that time is not something to be conqured or defeated, but lived.   He does not slow time for the weary or hasten it for the impatient. Instead, he offers a lesson; that every second holds weight, that even fleeting moments can shape eternity.   Worship of the Measured is quiet, a prayer uttered at the start of a journey, a pause to savour a sunset, a clock wound with care. He does not demand reverence but understanding. To know him is to know that time is not a thief, but a gift, a fleeting thread from which the tapestry of existence is woven, strand by precious strand.