ClassBattle Magus
Gender & HeightStallion, 18hh
Age & Season3 Autumn ☁
Crystals180  ✦
Writerraum, 7 posts


iberian ♦ phantasm ♦ sinewy ♦ smooth curves ♦ sharp angles ♦ lupine

seal brown, gold that cuts across his shoulders like veins in granite ; long, untrimmed mane - long furred lionesque tail ;
tall, muscular, refined ; sharp eyeteeth & incisors. (omnivore)
smells of: black currant & sandalwood cedar, faint notes of patchouli.

warbred ; the fall of a starless night. his skin is dark, swarthy depth – a river of stygian shores, inlaid with the veining of golden bones. it glimmers, the mercurial shores rippled with inking tendrils that bide and weave, wrapp'd in the fervor of the hunt. lycain brood. his musculature is virile, smooth, brimmed with youthful grandeur and spartan might – furious gaits that profess their power, their thunder, the heavy drums of an army that seethes from the aching soul; a hunger, the bottomless agony of a ghoulish haunt. he is the embodiment of the styx, the cold hard stone that guides its waves, the austere trenches that gleam and pool with the shadows of a graven eve – splashed across his shoulders, the glint of luscious golden ichor that sprawls from chest to shoulder, as if erratic cracks in the granite slab. tall, long, his physique is a tantalizing mix of athleticism and grace. his shoulders are broad, peaked in their symmetry with the point of his croup – framing a healthy, winding spine that boasts the curves of ample muscle and tight sinew. he bears a heavy, squared jaw – wolfish, broad, his handsomeness accentuated in sharp angles that smooth along the slope of his nose, as if his features carved from marble. his face is dark, severe, often morose – and otherwise, so viciously charming, a butcher's grin beset by deep eyes that leer with a sharp golden pin. there is something alluring about the change of his expressions, their facade of a mirror's sifting smoke suave ; something predatory, dangerous, so inviting and equally terrifying. in the slight of his amusement it is often to catch a glint of silvery fang, peeked from behind a sliver of his tongue as it glides across his sharp incisors. carnivorous glee. his devilish deshevelment is crowned with the height of two curved horns, knobbed like splintered black bone along their ridges. his hair is long, uncut – sometimes braided against his nape, laid loose or so tight it is nearly hidden, held by gold webbing twine and small skeletal filigree. if left undone it drapes over his shoulders and cascades just past the curve of his thick neck, unraveled in thick obsidian waves, interrupted by few strands of gold. his tail is long, a flourish that is gilded in similar fashion, luscious glistening black furs that carry from dock to tip.


apathetic ♦ secretive ♦ sensual ♦ morose ♦ obsessive ♦ manipulative ♦ feral ♦ quiet

neck deep in menacing cabal – he is ruthless, heartless, his motives only know one end and his ambitions drive him there despite any interference. he is cold-blooded, hot-tempered, an incessant fiend consumed in the wild lust of succession. it is as though he craves immortality, while wielding its bounty. his mind is tracked only with survival, domination, prosperity, while his motives bathe in the grim conduct he assumes. black hole sun ; feverish latency of violence, what drips from the dagger and consoles his bitter lips – feral, feasting gluttony riled in gentleman suits and lycan furs. he is virile, narcissist brooding, a contemptuous hound that hungers for all that which lies beyond the hot press of his eager fingertips. to grasp, to strangle, to burn holes with his mouth and peel flesh with his gaze. reaver, reaper aesthetic. he commands the room in cold contemplation, a pagan king possessed of all untimely hallows – an earl of nether realms. there is a louring aura about him, that which winds its wilds through his bones and entangles in the charm of his grin. a double edged blade who in its lethal glint conspires with a coquettish indulgence. a dark individual, consumed of sensual duality. he is rough, unbridled passion – a devil's couture. charismatic and cruel – despite his reserve, his dire ambience that tours the mind like a plague, he is effortlessly charming, silver-tongued lecher, grit with the filth of his desires. vicious, rampant being unhinged; rage courses his veins like a rapid drug, and his addictions deprive him of any desire for remorse. his, is a heart left to wander freely 'mongst the warrings of death and infamy, equally divine in their right possessed – and collected within itself, silence collapsed its starvation, apathy rendering his compassion no more than a festering lust for blood and delicacy. his existence is but a dream – a gasping intimacy that retches its volatile passion in ruining his past, an unearthly anatomy in its handsome menagerie of chiseled bone and fibrous flesh. he were a creature born of lust and ruination, and halved of their morality still; a patron of beauty in war, the art of bloodshed in its finest filigree.


Not a god, not a titan. A mistake shaken loose from the ether of a netherworld.

Before it was Erasmus, it was nothing.

In the rubble and dust of a dying galaxy, in the eye of a final dying star, there drifted in a vast and encroaching Nothingness all that was left of the worlds that Once Were, and in this was the dreams of Aeons, great things that had no true identity but being, these things of light and dark and every breath of life or death that existed between. For long the dust drifted in the colliding galaxies, remnants of each flicker like the shards of a mirror flashing, until the weight of that dying star sucked the pieces of all that lay around it.

In its death, there at last persisted that great Nothingness upon that fading galaxy, that peering void into which we all dream but dare not touch out of an otherworldly fear of never knowing.

In its death, there unraveled the milky traces of a glistening Aether, fresh and hot and changeable in the tread of space, a thing of dreams and will that suffers the span of immortality – it is everything, all, and nothing, what yet slips between the cracks and settles in the eaves in the shadows drawn by meteors. The coldness of a dead star was compacted into a small stone, about which played the essence of Aeon chimera and prophecy.

A hungry rift, ancient and engorged with the destruction of many a planet and galaxy, felt the ripple of power left by the aether of a dying star, and devoured the cold stone.

Alas, somewhere in the vortex of pitch and milky galaxy throe, the aeon stone dreamt of sharpness, of cutting blackness like a blade through the belly of a snake.

This stone swallowed by the great serpentine rift dreamed heavy dreams of life and death, of ribbed greatness and a gaping maw filled with teeth to bite and gnaw; this stone dreamed of a thousand suns split from the halve of a burning moon, and in dreams cracked and swelled in the hungry rift that twisted and writhed with an agony it never knew before. All of which the stone touched and dreamt was consumed in itself, and created anew – a cancerous predisposition which in the belly of the rift snake (for it dreams of iridescent, coiling things with a hunger) ate and ate until it carved the great rift in two.

In the death of the rift, the dying star of aether aeon dreams learned the pangs of hunger.

It sought rift after rift, a curious thing that probed each shifting dimension of mirror galaxies with an incessant thirst for more, vampiric and ravenous. But at last it dreamt of more than snake rifts and stones and the great hunger of space, and it thought of mortality, of flesh and blood and breakable bone. Too quickly – too recklessly, these dreams capsized and smoldered, and its writhing gasps dreamed for air and sweetness, it collapsed on the terra of a dying planet in the system of a dying galaxy. Its meteoric descent was a vision of starfire in the lonesome, starless heavens, and one lone creature came to observe its arrival.

The dying star, more aether and serpent and hunger than a stone at all, gazed upon the flesh of mortality and reached out with its abysmal shadow and spoke in tongues the creature did not learn but knew, as it was a language older than words.

Come, the aether pulsed, and the child came to it with dreams of wonder and innocence. Come.

I can fix you, the aether hissed in dreaming of immortality, of space beyond space, and as it touched the skull of the boy it wove its magic deep in his bones and flesh and all at once it was fire and cold of deep space, the softness of velvet kisses and the sharpness of a hot blade through the belly of a serpent. But the pain of famine, of life, of mortality was a horror to behold, and at once the thing (that was now more than aether and serpent and hunger and boys who did not know better than to explore the unknown) dreamt of the end, of death, and of endless night.

A new rift, hungry for the trace of a dying world, devoured it whole.

Erasmus, that was his name, the thing of boyish flesh and aether bone, Erasmus knew too much of hungry rifts and the great, endless Nothingness. And in its final dream, dreamt of blackness so sharp it split through the belly of the rift.

But he did not find the blackness of space or the comforting cold of dying starlight. When the darkness of the rift unfolded from him, there was only the bleak stretch of moors and dreary, greyed skies. And when he dreamed of night, of a heavy, sweeping night, it did not come.

Of Aeons, -- Aeons are a formless matter of energy that once created and reigned each facet of nature and fate in the worlds that Once Were. The material of its galaxy was the very dream of these powerful Aeons - things which are more similar to earthly Titans than gods. But physical matter is definite by its eventual undoing, as death is inescapable, and after a many eon the worlds that Once Were were damaged by corruption and colliding spatial matter, the galaxy-to-galaxy friction that led to its own destruction. The Aeons, weakened by ceaseless ages and the impending doom of its quickly diminishing galaxy, thus relented to the devouring Nothingness.

Of Aether, -- a dying breath that escaped the death of those powerful Aeons. Aether, though its definition varies by universe, is a material here that derives from the compacted energies of the galaxy that Once Was, the Aeons, formed in some accidental phenomenon by the press of Nothingness. It is not exactly a who or what, but a collection of all things (and by nature, of Nothing at all) that exists as memory in the galaxy that Once Was. Like Aeons, it too can dream-create material, formed out of its own essence, of any varying solidity. Unlike Aeons, it does not understand the creation of Life and is a heavily flawed material, so is too often destructive in its properties to ever be capable of creating worlds or any permanent, physical form separate of itself.

Of Erasmus, -- a boy from the ruins of dying world not far from this one. Starved, the last of a dwindling population of equine species on the merciless terra of a sick planet, Erasmus is an unfortunate (or perhaps fortunate after all) mortal who stumbled across an Aether form when it crashed on his planet. Curious and hungry, he approached it and unknowingly accepted its possession of his body. Too weak to fight it, the real Erasmus died shortly after, while the Aether assumed its vessel. What it is in physicality is a boy that once was, but it is nothing more than a husk that houses the dark energy. Erasmus was 2 when he was posessed by the Aether, and it has since learned most of his bodily functions and a fair extent of the common language, but there is about him the constant air that something is not quite right, especially in the wolfish way he moves or the predatory, unsettling way he hums or softly growls when lost for words.


I. Foreign Energy Manipulation
[dark] aether ; manipulation of the blackest space of a nether realm – its form resembles cosmic shadow, dark and heavy. the "aether" is a cosmic material formed in an alternate universe, fragments collected from residual energies left in the death of aeons - a once pantheon of otherworldly celestials or titans. erasmus is aether trapped in a mortal body. it moves as smoke, changeable and fleeting, or as ink drops gathering like a reclaimed rain. translucent fringes of aether sometimes appear with a shifting iridescence. the aether is all, is nothing, a gap in the span of reality that devours insatiable. it is not hot or cold to the touch, but creates an odd prickling sensation when pressed to flesh and can be destructive with increased force and skill. Erasmus, or the aether-made thing that has become Erasmus, is forever confined to mortality, its full potential thus checked. it is no longer capable of its dream-shifting, restricted to the limitations of flesh and bone of the thing it has possessed.

but o, it dreams of the darkness of space, the eternity of the gaping void, that cold, dreadful place that lesser dreams dare not touch --

I. they the reflective remnants of starless space, shadows coil and lick at his heels, his spine. but these are no more than fledgling aether traces, and his manipulation of this power can not yet exceed their use as a trick or fanciful imagery on a small, brief scale. their material is see-through and weak, and extensive usage is physically and mentally draining. they vanish when struck, receding back to him with all the exhalations of whispering eldritch vapors. the pull of aether is often temperamental and graceless.

ii. the aether grows reckless, restless – their shadows writhe like coiling serpents, gathered in the nestle of every fiber. they are leeches for the places light does not tread, entanglements of roving murk that drip like wet ink. their stirrings have unsettled ampler amounts, and its pull now has the capability of forming more stable but still cursory forms, honing a force capable of cuts and moderate bruising. it is yet difficult to manifest in forms larger than half the size of erasmus, and the more aether is used, the less time is available.

iii. refined, seething blackness; control is seemingly effortless, though his every curve is bathed - drenched, in webbing cosmic shade. when he wills, the force of aether may manifest horrors of greater authority: animations of otherworldly forms, the steely firm and sharpness of more solid applications of force, the loom of celestial blackness in stretching clouds. he may even engulf himself and unfortunate foes in a room of dense, blinding blackness, an unsettling, hungry void that may dull the senses (particularly sight) and hums with dread.

iv. aether is all. it pours in his every aching breath, slips from every spring of trickling ichor. it is written in his bones – it is all consuming, all present, a communion of weighted, awful shadows that sulk and pillage in all conjured forms of terror. when controlled, these aether weavings are enough to darken skies in monstrous silhouettes, to devour the rays of the sun, or to engulf a citadel in starless, smoldering night that hums, that resonates, that screams ! o, with the nether breaths of horror! sweet dreams of neverending blackness, the fall of a moonless, godless eve; as though, as though – erasmus dines on each prick of studded starlight, and grins a chain of stygian voids.

weakness: extended use (especially at lower tiers) often results in debilitating migraines, fatigue, body aches, dissociation from reality. nothing is permanent except for any physical damage caused, and varying opposing force may exorcise the effectiveness of aether if time does not extinguish it first.
cosmetics: erasmus is adorned in aether shadow like wisps of rippling mesh robes - they are most prominent in the darkness of night, and increase in darkness and number the higher this arcana levels. until at its pinnacle it seems as though he breathes it, is woven in it, seethed from his pores and shifting in the blackness of his eyes.
note that aether is not capable of true creation, and so anything it makes is an extension of itself, and will appear as dark as vantablack, or faintly iridescent if somewhat see-through.

II. Shadowwalking - not yet obtained
a method of transportation harnessing the other-dimensional power of aether.


Current time: 11-13-2019, 12:17 AM.
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Omne: A Fantasy Animal Roleplay BIANDRI.