Ngi, God of shadow and bone,
prowls the forest where light dies,
his breath a whisper of decay,
his hands stained with forgotten blood.

His voice shakes the canopy,
calls the rain and stills the storm.
A ruler unseen,
whispered in the rustle of leaves.

Villagers offer fruit and song.

Ask for strength, for protection,
but none see the scars beneath his fur,
the endless hunger clawing at his chest.

For He is not god or guardian.

He is the last of his kind,
wearing the skin of legend,
waiting for the world to forget,
so he can vanish completely.