A solitary figure who walks the knife-edge of cliffs, guiding thunderheads like a patient shepherd tends his flock. Lightning answers his gestures, and the wind bends to his quiet will.
Thalorin Galeweaver was not born into the storm—he was found by it. As a child, he vanished during a season of relentless tempests, swallowed by clouds that tore across the sky like restless spirits. When he returned days later, something in him had changed. His voice carried the hush before thunder. His footsteps stirred the wind.
Now he roams the high places of the world—jagged coasts, shattered peaks, forgotten plateaus—where the sky grows wild and unclaimed. With slow, deliberate movements, he gathers storms as though they were living things, guiding their fury away from fragile lands or unleashing it where the earth thirsts for renewal. Lightning coils around his hands like obedient serpents, and thunder rolls at his passing like distant drums.
Some say he is a guardian, keeping balance between calm and chaos. Others whisper he is no longer entirely human—just another force of nature wearing a familiar shape.
But if you ever see a storm hesitate… if the winds pause, listening…
Thalorin Galeweaver is near, tending his restless sky.
