Hello, Guest! Register
Night Court Soldier
Send Message


Immortal [Year 500 Winter]








kirin x / warlander


16.3 hh







Last Visit:

Yesterday, 03:19 PM


Signos: 300 (Donate)
Total Posts: 73 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 15 (Find All Threads)

seal brown, gold that cuts across his shoulder like veins in granite ; long, untrimmed mane - long furred lionesque tail ;
tall, muscular, refined ; sharp eyetooth & incisors, hidden behind lips
accessories: golden twine for braids, strung with small bones, claws, skulls & cobweb lacework
smells of: black currant & sandalwood cedar, faint notes of patchouli and tobacco.

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.

ambitious, intellectual, charismatic, organized, aesthete, loyal (to specific few) arrogant, aggressive, distant, distrusting

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.


In a stretch of arid badlands only known as The Wilds, there resided a string of bands whose war-torn histories made games of blood shed. The children only knew training, the adults only knew of slaughter and healing wounds. Between these things were decades of lore, lost wisdom, and a blindspot for mercy. The elders' tales of gods and dragons in the mountains were drowned out by the rampant rallies of adrenaline-surged warriors and the chiding of their cynical wives, and only the Shaman was left to the devices of such veneration. A wife of the Tsar, after many unsuccessful tries for a child, ventured to the Shaman for a blessing from long forgotten gods. Her secret commune with the man became a thing of gossip among the more derisive members of the band, but she paid no heed and the warriors and Tsar had minds for different things. In time she was found with child and bore Erasmus, the unruly wolf who concerned himself more with the stars and the great deep of the wood than the business of Tsars or the prattle of warriors despite his virtuosity on the training field. Those whose envies ran deep preyed on the prospect of traitorous liaisons between the Tsar-wife and the Shaman, and after much fabrication burdening the ear of the Tsar, convinced him of betrayal. He began to see a likeness in Erasmus more in tune to the shaman than himself (though vague and more borne of speculation than truth) and ordered he and the mother be executed. Erasmus escaped into the deep wood and to the terminus sea at its brink, at which after a lengthy pursuit of a hooded figure was struck unconscious and fell to its waves. Helped ashore by a cloaked stranger, he thus began his exiled life at the shore of Novus.

Though the band that bore Erasmus had become fairly heretic by the time he was born, he was often spun tales of gods by his mother. She had been gifted him by the devotion of the shaman, and doted heavily on the mythological properties of such an occasion. Onesuch was the insistence that Erasmus, as she was told, was the object of celestial intervention, though his memories of her stories varied widely depending on the constant state of his mind – as children are oft, at the verge of sleep, to dream odd things of fairy tales, and very seldom hear the same thing twice. What he remembers was the story of a god's tear being swallowed by a great serpent, and that tear a stone that swelled the serpent's belly until it burst into new life. What he did not know is that the tales of gods and monsters are often one in the same, and the ear that hears the whispers of the gods are not unlike those children who sleepily dream convoluted aspects of troublesome faeries. As it is, gods often find their shallow graves where men have forgotten their tales, and must persist by means appropriate to the time. The gods known by the elders and the shaman were not the gods as known by other civilizations, though interpretation of their forms varied by each. They were more ancient and trivial things who had their place in the stars and had once, long before any could remember, visited and implemented certain facets of modern life. It was said that they dreamed and things therefore were, and were said to have brought some of the hybrids of known species, which reportedly had been originals of their own from distances beyond the recalled stars. In time, future archaeologists may refer to those gods as Aeons, and and in a time after that time, may remember the disastrous events that followed a planetary collapse which released a material known as Aether, the tainted, mingled essence of those eldritch things.


Much of the start of his stay in Novus, even after being delivered to the shores of Denocte, he was the boy lost to a shifting tide. He sought purpose in the Court he assumed he had been brought to, as he had been rescued from the leagues of the Terminus by a mysterious figure he followed from the cliffs of The Wilds. His first seized opportunity was at the start of Raum's seige – though his offer to hunt the villain was dismissed by Isra, her disappearance led to his participation in a search party arranged by her Emissary, Moira. From there he scavenged the north on, following word from vagrants of Raum's crimes and appearances, and soon enough found himself in the stead of the Day Court. He had developed a sort of veneration for the villain in his travels, marveling at how quickly The Crow had overturned a period of peace, imprisoned a Queen, and seized a throne. During his time within Solterra he was accompanied by a wanderer and discussed the properties of such a tyrant; finding, to his dismay, that he had spoken with Raum himself, and had felt utterly disappointed with the epiphanous interaction. What he discovered was not a titan of a man who raised a citadel from the depths of chaos and perseverance but the unwindings of a madman left his final fraying strings of sanity.

He returned to Denocte, its Markets devastated by the burnings, and though there was an assumption it was an attack by Raum and his Solterran spies, told no one of his exploits within the Day Court. He turned his back on the crimes of the Tyrant King, no more a King than a poor, withered thing haunted by his own ghosts. Erasmus hungered no longer for the exaltation of monsters and dragons, but sought his own means of greatness. During his travels through the eastern parts of Novus he had leant his ear to the ramblings of distant-eyed vagabonds to many tales and lore, and tuned himself to one device in particular. There was rumored to be an ancient city beneath Denocte itself, a great city of the dead – the catacombs, in which kings and regals were set to rest with all their riches. Retaining the information he had been provided, he mapped the supposed places which were once entrances to the forgotten crypts. Most had been collapsed tunnels found at the foot of the Arma Mountains, others built over by modern constructs or buried beneath centuries of dirt and rock. On one fortunate search, he discovered a hollow wall in the basement of an abandoned storefront left charred by the burnings, and spent what earnings he acquired from the White Scarab on its lowly structure. His risk was not in vain, and thus Tartaros and The Elysium was born from the renovation of that harrowed building.

Shortly after returning to Denocte and hunting for the catacombs, the land bridge rose between the Novus coast and the mysterious Island. It was not the crowd that gathered at its post or the wild rantings of the thing that jarred the streets of the Night Markets, but the curious hum that drew him in. There it resounded, grating and at times, screaming, like the roving thunder in a monstrous core. It bid him on, on, and he obliged its cadence into the depths of the ever changeable jungle that swallowed him whole. It was as if his entirety had been split into multiple facets, each one picked apart by the spirit of that loathsome island, and in it he faced a series of trials that tampered with fears and guilts, and even the things he was told as a boy, with tales of smooth black rocks and monstrous, hungry serpents. In the end, though he understood little of what occurred in the bowels of that separate world, he emerged with the possession of the Tempus Relic. But even as the island sunk back beneath the waves, that derisive hum remained...


Perhaps it was the Island that linked it all together, or perhaps it was just what forced him to remember his purpose, or perhaps it was nothing to do with anything at all. But that hum, that damnable hum, how it held its pitch in the screaming sun and dove to deplorable octaves when the night fell all around him and his dreams were fraught with the deep of the great forests at the edge of The Wilds. How it howled, how it called! Not from the place where the Island had sunk (had it, truly?) but from western shoals, from the distant horizon that sat beyond the cove upon whose shore he had been swept. Time seemed to stop here and there, when the hum was particularly awful, and it had even been enough for him to blame the Relic itself. He placed it in the hold of a vault deep in Tartaros, and took to the western most reaches of the coast. But only in err, for the sordid sound continued on even without the Relic, and he absolved his ignorance regarding its origin. He provided Bernard, his appointed manager for The Elysium, directions as which to carry out business with the tavern and to close its dark market underbelly Tartaros. And providing no further explanation, boarded a ship that made a temporary stop just north of The Wilds.

What he found was a devastated stretch of what was once the great, deep, and formidable forests that spanned the edge of the Wilds. Trees had been capsized and snapped, some burnt to sticks, all bowed away from a crater at what had once been its thickest mass of growth. And still, the hum, it persisted over the distant crashing of waves or the gust of winds that blew a dust storm over the arid stretch of badlands. Still, it hummed, a horrible drone that reverberated every corner of his mind, so that his eyes felt like fire in his sockets and his ears like pins stuck in the drums. And the closer to the crater he came, how awful a prickling he felt in every fiber of his flesh. And he remembered how his mother crooned that he should never enter that forest, spinning tales of beasts and dragons and all manner of terrible things that would eat anything that entered. Of a hunger that resided there, that would swallow up young boys who didn't listen to their loving mothers. Oh, but she never mentioned a hum or the pain it brought, and the need he felt, that felt itself almost like a hunger as well. So when he approached that crater and the smooth, iridescent rock at its heart, the last thing he remembered of himself was the feeling of hunger and the tales of river rocks swallowed by great serpents.

That hum became words, and those words, a promise. It could fix him, it said. It could make him whole, it pleaded softly. He was nearly perfect, but not perfect enough. It hummed, hummed, hummed; it breathed, it sang. It had called him here, to the place his mother told him never to go, it was meant for him and he, it. And with tendrils that lifted like smoke and grabbed like claws, it dove deep into the pores and the sockets and the veins of the Erasmus-That-Was. It swallowed him up whole, or he it, for it thrashed and bellowed wildly in his bones and his organs, his skin too taut and his aches too real; but o, what was worst was the hunger! It had never known what hunger was before then, but only that it fed on prayer and its own dying planets and its own sickened stars, until all that was left was to unravel itself and make new – and now it knew the salt of flesh and the lush of ripened fruit, the metal of blood and the all too comfortable way his sharp teeth cleaved like knives. It now knew of the band of warriors who had murdered his mother, and it knew the sharp pang in remembrance of her sorrowful cries. So it found them. So it fed.

Active & Parvus Magic


[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 - cosmic energy which, if defined by mythological terms, may be categorized as godly by pantheistic means. 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. Discipuli- 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. VEXILLUM- 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. Periti- 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. Dominus- 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 a starless, smoldering night that hums, that resonates, that screams ! o, with 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.

I.I. Parvus: Erasmus is adorned in iridescent black 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. At its pinnacle it seems as though he breathes it, is woven in it, seethed from his pores and shifting in the black of his eyes.

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. his supply of aether is not infinite, given its physical and celestial restrictions. even in higher tiers, the more it stretches the less it is solid - and therefore, the less it is capable of destruction. at the pinnacle of its use, even if it were to shroud an entire castle in humming, maddening dark, it is incapable of crushing that castle or doing much else until it has regrouped into a tighter volume.
*note that the 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.

Passive Magic


Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

accessories: golden twine for braids, strung with small bones, claws, skulls & cobweb lacework (x2); a small satchel for coins & trinkets

armor: His armor is made of a Denoctian metal forged to be lightweight, dark as the night, which in the moon's glow may faintly shimmer in certain light like the cascade of distant stars. His faceplate is long and broad across his muzzle, fitted to a point between his nostrils and two horns sharply risen at its center. A matching plated neck piece leads to the chestplate engraved in gold runes from a forgotten language, strapped over his withers and just behind his elbows with a dark tanned leather. Between his chest piece and haunch guard stretches a black iridescent sheer like a banner, which in the breeze shifts between galaxic and subtle blue, purple, and gold tones. Strapped to his legs are matching bracers. An iridescent black cowl settles in the crook between his shoulders and the chest plate, sewn in to the leather strapping. Behind his left shoulder sheathes a sickle sword of the same metal damascus-forged, jagged in shape, double-edged and kept keenly sharp.
enchantment: this armor helps him maintain a reasonable body temperature at all times. in areas of cold, the armor keeps him warm. when overheated, it cools him down. the metal is always eerily cool but not cold to the touch, even when the sun is beaming down upon it. - not yet claimed

Agora Items & Awards

(View All Items)


avatar by [email protected], ref image by [email protected], banner by [email protected]

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 many an 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.

reticent gaunt haunt. witchy wretch.
quiet, passive, an introverted heatseeker. may come across as impolite, is really just horrible with conversations.

aka RAUM on discord.

Played by:

Raeym. (PM Player)


none    //   



Also Plays