Sylvan

Myths cannot communicate the mute awe that besets a body when a perfectly ageless immortal descends into their life. Such victims have no choice but to temporarily succumb to a theologic frenzy, and would lie prostrate in the epileptic throes of a passion of worship that teeters on madness, if not for the sound, the whisper of garments, or the scent of the flowers that adorn the creature - earthly details that bind the otherworldly being to this humbled plane. The witness then stands rooted in place, at this being's mercy.

He might as well be a god, the lowly mortal thought as Sylvan’s form dazzled his wide eyes, a nebula of faerie light in all the sense of depth, horror, and splendor.