The first time I saw Allend, he was mending a child’s toy cart with the same care he might give a cathedral door. Broad-shouldered, golden-haired, and strong in presence, he carried himself like someone who had nothing to prove — though he often did. His skin is a warm ochre, his face open, handsome, and expressive. He walks with purpose, but not pride. He wears long tunics of practical weave, often grey or pale blue, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His hands are always busy — writing, mending, carving, or gesturing as he speaks.
He is approachable where his twin Sequorin is remote. People trust Allend. They tell him things without knowing why. His laugh is gentle and quick, but his eyes betray a constant flicker of self-questioning. Some say he is the more human of the twins — not because he is less divine, but because he still wonders if he is enough.
A Son of Paradox
Born to Yolansteppen and Walla Immen, Allend inherited their paradox — Walla’s need for action, and Yolansteppen’s pull toward inner truth. He stands between their legacies like a hinge in a gate: one side swinging outward into the world of deeds, the other inward into mystery.
Unlike Sequorin, who embraced his intellect as identity, Allend often struggles to define himself apart from comparison. He has followed his brother into countless debates and watched him win with words. Allend prefers action but finds words waiting at every step.
Once, he attempted to forge a new system of education for a human province. His ideas were clear, his intentions noble. But when he proposed removing memorization drills in favour of poetic immersion, Sequorin ridiculed the plan in a public forum. Allend did not defend himself. He simply left — and rewrote the curriculum anyway. Five years later, the children of that region began composing verses about the gods, without ever being taught their names.
His Command of Language
Allend’s command of Njani lies in voice and story. He is not a writer like Yolansteppen, nor a strategist like Beralien. He is a builder of narrative shapes — educational systems, civic rites, and frameworks of understanding that help humans hold truth in their hands without getting burned.
He has helped develop the foundational scripts for teaching in several civilizations, always appearing in disguise — a visiting instructor, a wandering monk, a mute child who suddenly begins to speak. His lessons are not dogmatic. He gives tools, then disappears.
In one town, he introduced the concept of the “Question Circle” — a group of peers who meet monthly to ask each other one impossible question. The practice spread through the region. When asked if it was his idea, Allend said only, “The question was always there. I just cleared a little space around it.”
His Relationship with Sequorin
Allend and Sequorin are not opposites — they are tensions in the same cord. They bicker constantly, especially over the rules of Dasmark. Allend often loses, but only because he plays honestly.
Their conflict is not rooted in hatred, but in unspoken affection complicated by difference. Sequorin once said, “Allend makes mistakes. But they are beautiful mistakes.”
Allend loves his brother, even when he cannot understand him. He sometimes follows Sequorin’s footsteps to quietly undo what he believes was too sharp, too clever, or too cold. He does not seek credit. He seeks balance.
The gods joke that Allend is Sequorin’s conscience — not because he is morally superior, but because he is brave enough to care aloud.
The Illusory Woman and the Dragon
One of Allend’s most infamous acts was the misuse of Njani in a game of Dasmark. To distract Sequorin during a pivotal move, he created an illusion — a beautiful woman drawn from Njani and memory. The illusion turned unexpectedly autonomous, and when Allend’s attention lapsed, she transformed into a dragon and destroyed the village where they were playing. Sequorin won the match. Allend never played again for a century.
Though the event caused deep shame, Allend learned from it. He began studying emotional projections, subconscious shaping of energy, and the dangers of using Njani without clarity. It is said that no god now understands the consequences of intention better than Allend. He now teaches young humans the weight of imagination — not as a gift, but as a responsibility.
His Romantic Nature
Allend is pansexual but reserved. His lovers describe him as present and generous — and quietly sad. He offers affection freely but rarely lets others see his internal fears. He does not fear rejection — he fears not living up to the person others hope he might be.
He once loved a mortal playwright who died too young. For fifty years afterward, Allend wandered the countryside, leaving copies of the playwright’s lost works in libraries that had never heard of him.
Yolansteppen has written of him: “He loves like a question waiting for permission.”
Spiritual Orientation
Allend is drawn toward the inward path, though he typically follows Sequorin along the outward journey out of habit, love, or reluctance to separate. Yolansteppen once said, “One day, I think, my son will join me in a journey.”
In private moments, Allend meditates near still lakes. He does not seek to merge with the Unified Mind. He seeks to make the world ready for such a merging — by giving it stories, lessons, and hands that know how to hold.