♡Rain♡'s Den

♡Lore♡

To walk among The Ethernal Ones is to step into a dream you’re not quite sure you woke from. This pride, quiet and hauntingly beautiful, thrives in twilight groves where the flowers never wilt and the wind carries hymns too old to name. At the center of it all is Rain.

He is not what one expects of a king. There is no thunder in his roar—only rain, steady and unshakable. His pelt is a painting of dusk after fire: storm-blues, candlelight embers, and a faint pattern of shadowed flame that dances when he moves. His mane, silver-white and soft as ash, frames a face that seems carved by sorrow and serenity alike.

Rain is a listener. A bearer of lachrymæ—not just his own tears, but those the world has forgotten to shed. He has wandered the hollow places of the soul, walked through ruins of memory, and returned not with bitterness, but with empathy. To hear him speak is to hear the echo of something sacred and strange: a sermon in soft tones, spoken in a voice that calms even the most restless spirits.

But Rain is not weak.

His faith is iron. Not in gods, but in meaning. He believes in what lies unseen: loyalty without chains, healing without demand, beauty blooming from ruin. "It is not for us to be remembered," he once said, "but to remember." A line now whispered by the lionesses of the Ethernal Ones like scripture.

They say he carries the Grucifix—etched in the bark of the oldest tree, burned into the heart of the pride’s sacred grove. A symbol not of domination, but of transformation. Where others see a fallen cross, Rain sees rebirth.

Rain dreams of a better kingdom. One that rises not from bone and blood, but from vision. He often speaks of a child not yet born, or perhaps already gone—a Kaisarion whose voice will shake the very stars. A future wrapped in prophecy, carried on the wind.

At dusk, Rain can be found standing atop the hill known as the Faithless Rise, where fires once burned and hatred bloomed. Now, wildflowers cover the scars, and Rain watches over them like a silent guardian. And when the sky weeps and the earth sings with it, he closes his eyes and listens.

"It’s just a passing phase," he murmurs to the rain. "A ghost upon the stage."

And still, he leads.

Not with command, but with conviction.

Not with fear, but with faith.

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