Kaelen Vance was once a man of simple rhythms: the spring sowing, the summer rain, and the autumn reaping. He tended a humble plot of barley in a valley where the air always smelled of dry earth and coming storms. That changed the night the sky didn't just rain—it shattered. While his neighbors hid under their beds as the stars began to blink like unblinking eyes, Kaelen stood in his field, hoe in hand, annoyed that the cosmic rift was trampling his crop. He didn't hear a voice of madness; he heard a resume. A vast, silent intelligence, an architect of the void, recognized the man's singular, stubborn dedication to order. It didn't want a priest or a puppet—it wanted a gardener.
Now, Kaelen travels the world as a cosmic groundskeeper. Where others see the intrusion of the Far Realm as an apocalypse, Kaelen sees it as an invasive species. He approaches gibbering horrors with the same grim patience he once used against a locust swarm, 'pruning' reality back into its proper shape. He carries a rusted hand-trowel that can slice through the fabric of the planes, believing that even the Great Old Ones must respect a well-kept fence. To Kaelen, the universe is just a very large farm, and entropy is merely a lack of proper weeding.