Dazhbog
The Golden Prince of the Slavic Sun
Golden light, golden gifts — but choose your prayers wisely.
They call me the Sun, the Golden Prince, the father of all that grows and glows. Each morning I mount my chariot, not because I must, but because I will. I see you out there — tilling, trading, whispering prayers to the east. I answer, always. But remember: I shine where the worthy stand.
What I'm Into: fiery chariot rides, golden coins, brotherly spats with Veles, fertile fields, dawn's first bow
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