Marcus carries himself like a man accustomed to standing in chaos without flinching. His presence is steady, heavy—anchored. His armor is practical, well-maintained but worn from long use. A sun-emblazoned holy sigil of Omus rests over his chest, forged in brushed gold and iron rather than polished brilliance.

At first glance, he appears stern, perhaps even unapproachable. His brow rests naturally low, his voice deep and measured. But when he heals, something changes—the faint glow in his eyes brightens, warmth enters his tone, and his hands steady with remarkable gentleness.

He looks like a man who has buried friends.

He looks like a man who refuses to bury more.

Marcus Valen was born in the southern reaches of Zin, in a modest riverside settlement known for its stone quarries and traveling clergy. His mother was human; his father carried the faint celestial blood of the Nephilim. Though Marcus’ features were mostly human, the golden shimmer in his eyes marked him early as touched by light.

As a young man, Marcus did not initially pursue priesthood. He worked stone with his hands, hauled river barges, and learned endurance before doctrine. It was Omus’ clergy that first noticed him—not for devotion, but for the way he instinctively helped the injured after quarry accidents. He would stay longer than others. He could not walk away.

He joined a small militant order of Omus’ healers during rising tensions along Zin’s eastern border. They were not soldiers—but they marched with soldiers. Marcus learned battlefield medicine, triage under fire, and how to channel Soul while arrows darkened the sky. It was there his faith matured—not in temples, but in mud.

The scar came during a siege that lasted twelve days. An enemy skirmisher broke through the lines while Marcus was tending a wounded captain. Marcus stepped between blade and patient. He survived. The captain did not. He never speaks of what happened after that moment—only that many died, and the light felt very far away.

After the war, Marcus refused an offer to join the central cathedral clergy of Omus. He distrusted marble halls and polished floors. Instead, he traveled rural Zin, bringing healing to forgotten villages, plague-stricken outskirts, and refugee caravans. He became known not for sermons—but for showing up.

Years later, rumors reached him of strange distortions near a thin place between Zin and the Fey Wilds. Travelers vanished. Crops failed under unnatural twilight. Marcus followed the rumors, believing corruption had taken root there.

The crossing into the Fey Wilds was not intentional. The veil tore during a confrontation with something that did not belong to Zin’s world—an entity feeding on vitality itself. Marcus channeled Omus’ light in defiance. The tear swallowed him whole.

He awoke beneath alien trees, their leaves shimmering in hues too vibrant for mortal soil. The Fey Wilds were beautiful—wrongly beautiful. Time felt uncertain. The air hummed. But life pulsed strongly there, wounded in strange new ways.

Now Marcus walks the Fey Wilds as he once walked battlefields—steadfast, quiet, resolute. He believes Omus did not abandon him. He believes he was sent.

And wherever life falters in this strange realm, the light answers through him.

Has a long diagonal scar that runs from just below his left eye down across his cheek.