[hider=Melion || Melithir || Growth, Bounty, Renewal, Agriculture][sup][h1][center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019838a1-9d15-718c-b43c-6000d9b53b76.webp[/img][/center][b][center][color=black] 𝕄𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕪𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕝 𝕄𝕖𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕤[/color]
[color=D1A054]𝕄𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕪𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕝 𝕄𝕖𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕤[/color][/center]
[/b][/h1][/sup][sup][h1][center][img]BLANK FOR NOW[/img][/center][b][center][color=black] God of Growth, Bounty, Renewal & Agriculture[/color]
[color=D1A054]God of Growth, Bounty, Renewal & Agriculture[/color][/center]
[/b][/h1][/sup]

[color=#D1A054][b]Name:[/b][/color] 			Melion
[color=#D1A054][b]Title:[/b][/color] 			God of Bounty
[color=#D1A054][b]Gender/Sex:[/b][/color]		Male
[color=#D1A054][b]Age:[/b][/color] 			6200~
[color=#D1A054][b]Species:[/b][/color] 		Melithir

[color=#D1A054][b]Information:[/b][/color] 
The Melithir is a solitary, hive-controlling monster of uncertain classification. Throughout all known history, only one has ever been alive at a time. Whether this is due to the rarity of its creation, some biological exclusivity, or a form of instinctual succession is a matter of speculation, even to the Melithir itself. Debates were as to whether the Melithir is a species at all or a singular, recurring phenomenon: one entity reborn throughout time in different forms and memories, always alone, always singular.

It is not born in the conventional sense, but rather grown deep beneath the earth, nested within the roots of forgotten groves or sun-warmed ruins where wild nature has overtaken civilization. Its chrysalis forms as a burial pod, woven of golden mycelium, flower-pulp, and crystallised nectar. At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than corrupted vegetation, something rotting and beautiful in equal measure. Once this cocoon reaches critical mass, often after a century of dormancy, it begins to emit a biological call, summoning pollinators to guard it. Bees, butterflies, wasps, and other nectar-seeking creatures answer this summons in swarms, orbiting the hidden chrysalis like a living veil. Though unaware of the purpose, they become erratic and territorial, bound unconsciously to its protection.

When the Melithir hatches, it is a soft, near-silent thing, fragile, speechless, and dependent. Yet even then, it establishes a seamless and absolute neural dominance over every pollinator within its range. The bond is not trained or coaxed, it simply is, like a natural order. These creatures act as extensions of its awareness, its will, and its needs. In this juvenile stage, the Melithir remains hidden beneath forest and ruin, guiding its swarm to deliver food, protect it from predators, and maintain the secluded haven in which it rests. This state may last for centuries.

Eventually, the creature’s mind and power mature. With time, it weaves for itself a humanoid body, serene and uncannily beautiful. The Melithir’s true body is humanoid, formed of waxen flesh with a texture like warm, polished nectar. It smells unmistakably floral, sweet and heady, like overripe clover or fermented honey. Its skin carries pale, bioluminescent striations beneath the surface, and its eyes are clear amber, flecked with darker golden rings.

Despite rumors, the Melithir does not physically contain creatures, nor does it birth them. It simply commands all pollinators within its domain with absolute authority. They are not domesticated. They are compelled, drawn to it by instinct, not fear. These creatures act as its extensions: scouts, defenders, weapons, and witnesses. As it endures through the ages, its control deepens, and its bond to the natural world around it strengthens. No known method of reproduction has been observed. Though it does seek companionship, no second Melithir has ever appeared while another still lives. 

The Melithir’s dominion is defined by its Hive Control, a vast sensory network composed of bees and other pollinators through which it can perceive, communicate, and influence its surroundings. These creatures allow it to lead migrations, distribute seeds, or weaponize entire swarms in defense.

It is known to emit a powerful Pheromantic Aura, capable of deeply influencing the emotional state of nearby living beings. This subtle atmosphere can induce calm, euphoria, reverence, or in rare cases, visions and obedience. Many who encounter it find their fear replaced by admiration before they even recognize its presence.

In a living, fertile landscape, the Melithir is nearly untouchable. Its creatures form a vast surveillance net that makes ambush nearly impossible. It understands terrain intimately, and can pacify or confuse most would-be intruders with its pheromones. Even those who come with blades may hesitate to strike when wrapped in a sense of awe. 

Hunting Melithir is, however, relatively easy with some knowledge. Covering one's senses with cloth to avoid its pheromones, as well as wearing thick protection to protect from its controlled swarms means that their physical, rather weak form, had no real protection. Combined with rumours that the golden sap that would be seen as its blood giving long life, often referred to as Mirelixir, Melithir, once found, didn’t often live long lives compared to what their lifespan could be. The oldest before Melion being roughly 400.

The Melithir is not without limits. In dry or barren terrain, deserts, frozen plains, stone-carved cities, its power is sharply reduced. Without flora or insects, it loses its eyes, its hands, its voice. Its physical form, while ageless, is still mortal. It wears no armor and possesses no innate physical might, relying instead on its control, environment, and loyal defenders.

Its final weakness lies in its mindset. The Melithir is focused on ensuring balance. It will not permit unnatural growth, nor excessive decay. It enforces a sense of ecological equilibrium that may seem cruel or indifferent to those who expect protection or healing. It may allow a forest to burn if it believes new life must rise from the ash. It does not mourn what it deems necessary.

[Hider=Excerpt from a Hunter’s bestiary]
[i]Classification: Fae or Forest spirit
Also known as: Hive-Fae, Hivelord/lady, Bloomwraith, Gilded Death, Sweetrot

Known Lairs:
Thick woods, overgrown ruins, forgotten shrines, and glades Avoid any place where flowers bloom wildly out of season.

Description:
A beautiful deceiver. The Melithir wears the shape of a golden-skinned youth. Its hair is often long and pale. 

It walks barefoot, untouched by thorns or blood. Wherever it treads, life blooms too quickly. Bones found near such sites are often flower-covered, the armor around them rusted through but unbroken.

Observed Powers:
Swarms: All manner of stinging and fluttering things obey its call. Not just bees but wasps, hornets, butterflies, and even biting gnats. 

Sweet Death: It overwhelms a man’s will with some aura or scent. Witnesses speak of soldiers lowering weapons and kneeling in bliss before the insects consumed them alive.

Resources to gather following successful kill:
Its blood, Mirelixir, is golden, thick, and glows faintly. Said to cure illness, extend life, and mend wounds that should never heal. Others swear it brings visions or fertility, depending on how it is distilled or ingested.[/i][/hider]

[color=#D1A054][b]Appearance:[/b][/color] 
Melion stands at just over six feet tall, his body graceful, but with an unsettling stillness. His physique is lean and androgynous, with softly defined musculature that evokes beauty more than strength. 

His skin is smooth and seamless, the color of pale honey or polished amber. It carries a faint luster in the light, like hardened resin, and near the extremities, his fingertips, temples, and collar, it grows slightly translucent. Beneath these thin spots, a slow blue glow emits through vein-like filaments, mimicking a circulatory system of liquid light.

Melion’s face is symmetrical to the point of unease. His cheekbones are high and sculpted, his features narrow and elongated, almost elven in their delicacy. His nose is fine, his lips full but expressionless, and his jawline tapers smoothly. A soft crown of luminous strands that sprout from his scalp like gossamer filaments, glinting faintly like silken threads spun from light. They hang weightlessly around his head and shoulders, swaying without wind.

His eyes are his most unnatural trait. Large and clear, their irises are molten honey: translucent, golden, and softly radiant. They reflect light like the surface of syrup, and the pupils are faint, difficult to discern at a glance, giving the impression that he is always staring directly through you. He does not blink unless mimicking the act.

His hands and feet are slender, his fingers tipped with slightly pointed nails the same golden hue as his skin. If broken, his flesh fractures like wax, cracking rather than tearing, and exudes a slow-oozing sap that smells of crushed wildflowers.

From afar, Melion appears divine. Up close, he is uncanny. There is no flaw, no blemish, no pore. He is beauty refined into stillness.


[color=#D1A054][b]Personality:[/b][/color] 
Melion is warm. That’s the first word anyone would use. He speaks softly, smiles easily, and listens as though your words are the most important thing in the world. Around him, people tend to relax, even if they don’t know why. He has a way of making you feel like you belong, like everything about you has already been accepted without question.

He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t argue. He just is, calm, unhurried, constant. The kind of presence that makes rooms feel quieter. He tends to tilt his head when listening, as if trying to understand a language he’s only recently learned. And yet, there’s no mistaking his intelligence. He notices details others miss. He rarely forgets a name, and always remembers the smallest offering or kindness given to him.

At a glance, he seems deeply empathetic. Gentle with animals. Patient with awkward conversation. Affectionate in the smallest of gestures, a brush of fingers against a leaf, a brief lull in his voice to let bees land on his shoulder. He’s someone people find themselves wanting to impress, without knowing why.

But Melion is also… distant. Not cold, just removed. He doesn’t ask for company. He never seeks out interaction. He’s content to sit for hours on his own, watching trees sway or bees crawl along the grass. Some think he’s shy. Others think he’s meditative. The truth is harder to name. 

Melion can be dangerous, but no one sees it. Not directly. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lash out. But people have disappeared, poachers, desecrators, men who took too much from the land without giving back. The strange thing is that people still pray to him for help solving those disappearances. 

He says very little. But when he laughs, it’s like honey warmed by fire. And most people never question anything else.


[color=#D1A054][b]History:[/b][/color] 
Melion was born in the quiet aftermath of ruin. He rose from the roots of an ancient tree split by fire, formed of sap and resin, ash and honeycomb. The war had ended long before he opened his eyes, long enough that the wounds it left on the land had begun to scar over. The world he emerged into was a quiet, broken thing. Forests were smaller. Rivers ran thinner. Bees, once thick as clouds, were rare and wandering.

He knew no name for himself then, and found no others like him.

For decades, he wandered the wounded woodlands in solitude. His touch mended the wild, sick trees, made meadows bloom again, and hives returned to slumbering hollows. His pollinators spread further, whispering of him in their silent, sacred language. Through them, he watched the world change. But though the land began to heal, the loneliness did not.

Then, one summer, a girl stumbled into his grove. Young, perhaps eight, no older, chasing dragonflies beyond her village's edge. She was afraid at first, as any child might be when stumbling into something strange. But she returned the next day, and the day after, always just a little braver.

She would talk to him. He would listen. In time, he answered. She brought questions, stories, wilted flowers, and drawings of bees. He showed her how to cup her hands without fear when they landed. He taught her the language of leaves, the meaning of old petals, and how to tell when a plant was lying.

She never asked what he was. She called him Melion, mispronounced from a word he'd once whispered to her by accident. He accepted the name.

Years passed. Her visits continued, growing less frequent but no less fond. He remained unchanged. She grew taller, louder, full of questions and opinions. She told him about her life, her siblings, the boys at school, the way adults laughed when she spoke of the man in the woods.

One day, she came to him crying. He was her friend, and she didn’t know who else would listen. No one believed her, not even her mother, about the golden man in the woods. She came to him crying, bruised and beaten.

Melion didn’t say a word. He only offered her the comfort of stillness, a shelter beneath blooming branches and watchful bees. She never saw the bodies. She came back weeks later, clutching a letter and unsure how to feel, because her tormentors were dead. He didn’t explain, she never asked, and still she returned.

She visited into her teens, and still in her twenties. Sometimes she came with laughter, other times with silence. She spoke of books and family, of life beyond the forest. And Melion listened. Always listening. The grove was fuller then, verdant, alive. It grew with her.

Eventually, when her hair had begun to grey, she brought him a gift: a hand-carved box filled with dried herbs and other things she had kept for him over the years. She said she had always known that he was not human. That she didn’t need to understand what he was to know he had protected her, healed the woods, and never asked for anything in return.

And then she said something he would never forget. That she knew what had happened to the boys. That she had suspected for years. And that she forgave him. Not because it was just, but because if anyone had hurt her children the way they hurt her, she would have done the same.

That was the last time she visited.

Melion found her grave months later. Packed earth near the edge of the grove where wildflowers now bloomed thick and untamed. He stood for a long time among them. The grave bloomed more with each visit. Foxglove. Clover. Milkweed. Poppies. A riot of color spread over the mound, woven through with humming wings and golden pollen. The land would know who she was. 

Years passed. Then, one evening, her children visited the grave. They saw the flowers and they saw him, standing motionless in the grove’s light, untouched by time. They wept, not from fear, but from the slow relief of believing. They whispered his name, passed down in bedtime stories and broken memories. 

And Melion remained, watching from the trees. As he always had.

[color=#D1A054][b]Mythical Significance:[/b][/color] 
Spring Festival - On the first Moon of Spring, rural villages and forest-bordering towns hold joyous, reverent, and quietly superstitious festivals. It is believed to honour a benevolent Forest God who restored the land, helped farmers grow crops, kept animals safe, and ensured the world was filled with beauty. It was whispered for a long time that they were called Melion, these rumours spread from a family whose matriarch had passed. It wasn’t confirmed until he attended his first Feast for the Gods where one mortal servant came back and spoke of Melion, confirming all their beliefs. 

The celebration is quiet but heartfelt. Families gather to plant wildflower seeds near forest borders, children wear flower crowns woven from clover, milkweed, and foxglove, honey sweets are shared, bees are honoured and left offerings of pollen-dusted fruit, soft herbs and sweet water on old stones or tree stumps.

[color=#D1A054][b]Relationships:[/b][/color] 
Open to discussion!

[color=883d39][b]▶ Getsuy ◀[/b][/color]
To some, Getsuy is the end of all things, hunger incarnate, a gnawing darkness that devours without remorse. To Melion, he is as necessary as the sunlight. The Wendigo’s presence does not stir fear within Melion, nor revulsion. Instead, there is recognition. After all, the vines must die for new shoots to rise, and bones must feed the soil.

Getsuy sometimes finds his way to Melion’s grove, a place of peace where even his hunger quiets. Rarely do they speak. There is no need. He sits among the bees and blossoms, the predator still and watchful, the monster no longer monstrous. Melion does not disturb the silence. He offers no judgment, only warmth, stillness, and a soft understanding with a smile. The flowers bloom near Getsuy’s hooves, and the grove hums gently, as if recognizing something long buried.

There are whispers that trespassers near the grove vanish before crossing its edge. Melion knows who lingers at the boundary, but he does not stop him. Balance must be kept, and the hunger must be fed. At least this way, the flowers will bloom a beautiful red.

[color=7F00FF]▶ Morrígan ◀[/color]
They are not friends, though the festival has bound their paths often enough to form something quieter: familiarity. Melion, god of bloom and bounty, and Morrígan, herald of the end, opposite ends of the cycle that even gods cannot escape.

Where he brings bees and blossoms, she carries silence and stillness. He has never feared her. She has never flinched at his light. Their conversations are rare, brief, and spare. Yet, beneath them, something ancient resonates, a rhythm not of words, but of purpose.

Once, they passed one another in the aftermath of a village wildfire. Melion stepped through soot and smoke, coaxing green shoots up through scorched earth while Morrigan sat beside the still warm bones. Neither intruded on the other. That was the only time they met beyond the festival.

Mortals have long mistaken them as twin aspects of a single force: the beginning and the end, birth and death, growth and decay. Shrines are built with both their sigils etched side by side, wreaths of blackthorn twined with foxglove. Melion never corrects it. Morrígan doesn’t bother to notice.

They are not a pairing. They are balance. And balance does not need understanding to endure.


[color=#D1A054][b]Color:[/b][/color] D1A054

[color=#D1A054][b]Other:[/b][/color] 
Melion cares not for pretending to be a God. He does his duty as is ingrained in him. He attends the feast to be with others who understand him better than humans. To speak and understand what others go through, to see the world through their eyes, even for just a month.

Favourite colours are green, purple, and red. 

It may be obvious, but Melion actually is a vegetarian. He does not eat, harm, or use animals.[/hider]