๐ธ๐๐๐๐ ๐พ๐ฃ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ค๐ฅ- Heritage / Culture: Fin'ullen, Born of Xerodon
- Age: 25
- Gender / Pronouns: Male
- Religion: The Deep Will (Formerly aligned with The Hollow, now embracing his birthright)
- Occult: Mortisphage, Hollow Archmage Masked Singer of the Consigner, Godborn of Xeradon
- Character Occupation: Master of the Inner Sea, Aspiring public figure in Regalia
๐ธ๐ก๐ก๐๐๐ฃ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
- Eye Color: Bluish-green, squid-like with wispy trails when moving
- Skin Color: Grayish, covered in small shark-like scales
- Hair: Long, flowing midnight black hair with a widow's peak
- Height: Slightly larger than the lean, athletic build
- Body Type: Athletic but slightly larger than lean
- Additional Features:
- High cheekbones, strong jaw, thick eyebrows, clean-shaven or shadowed
- Underwater form: Grows fins on his head, forelegs and forearms
- Monster form: Eight aqua-green transparent tentacles sprout from his back, his skin turns green, and his grimace becomes ghoulish
- Phosphorescent Majesty: His gray, shark-scaled skin reflects eerie bioluminescent hues beneath the waves.
- Ruined Finery: His tattered loincloth still bears the intricate craftsmanship of the Fin'ullen, remnants of a past lost to the tide.
- Eldritch Symbols: Faint Hollow runes etch his skin, flickering when the abyss calls.
๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐- Skilled in magical arts and illusions
- Crafting and working with threads
- Skilled in evasion and movement-based techniques
- Adept in ancient script deciphering and esoteric lore
- Masked persuasion and deception, a master of rhetoric
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ค
- Resilience pack
- Thread craft pack
- Soulrend wisdom pack
- Affliction wisdom pack
- Venom pack
- Escapist pack
- Edgewalker pack
๐๐๐๐๐ฆ๐๐๐
- Common (Free)
- Altalar (Native)
- Povalt (Language of the Deep Will worshippers)
- Ancient Xeradic (A lost language tied to his bloodline)
๐๐๐ ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐น๐๐ฃ๐ฅ๐๐ฃ๐๐๐๐ฅ
There are horrors that lurk not in the Void , nor in the fathomless reaches of the Beyond, but in the fragile whispers of things unremembered. Aniah Grenghost was not merely born, but wrenched from the tide of his rightful inheritance. His father, Xeradon, the behemoth-lord of the abyss, the vast and unknowable sovereign of the southern seas, had cast forth his progeny into the depths of the mortal world. But that destiny was severed, twisted beyond recognition by hands unseenโthe Masked Singers of the Consigner, architects of subterfuge and devourers of memory.
It was in their wretched grasp that he was molded, not as a son of the deep, but as an instrument of hollow silence. The Singers wove his infancy into an unholy artifice of subjugation. They taught him that the self was a thing to be unraveled, that the soul was nothing more than a tether to be plucked and unwound like the hushed echoes of forgotten civilizations.
He did not remember warmth, nor love, nor any gentle touch of familiarity. His world was veiled in cold ritual, his mind shaped to grasp the intangible specters of the Consigner's will. He learned that memory was a thing that could be stolen, that to feast upon the past of another was to claim dominion over their very being. The first years of his life passed in shadowed halls, beneath the murmuring drone of voices that were neither alive nor dead, a child raised upon the whispers of things that had long since been without life.
And yetโthere was something deeper, something just beyond the reach of his mind. A sensation not of silence, but of a roaring tide, an unrelenting call from a place he had never known, but to which his very bones seemed bound.
๐๐๐ ๐น๐๐ก๐ฅ๐๐ค๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ โ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐จ
The great rites of the Singers demand completion, an unmaking of the self so total that no vestige of past life remains. For Aniah, this moment came not in a slow decay of humanity, but in a violent transformationโthe Mortisphage's Curse.
It was on the precipice of his adolescence, in the dim glow of an unseen moon, that he was offered the sickness that would twist his form beyond the mortal condition. His flesh, once merely pallid with the weight of forgotten suns, became something other, luminous and spectral, a thing that glowed with the eerie radiance of decay halted mid-consumption. His very breath became a siphon of vitality, and his gaze, those pale-green orbs trailing with phantasmal wisping light, became a gate through which the past could be unmade.
But there was more.
His words no longer belonged solely to him; they carried the weight of Malefica, a pressure upon the mind of all who heard them. He could steal not only the strength of men, but their very recollectionsโtheir triumphs, their fears, the intimate fragility of their joys. He was no longer a being of mere blood and bone, but a phantom in the waking world, an agent of entropy bound in the flesh of something unfinished.
Yet even as the Singers exulted in his perfection, he felt the weight of something that should not be. A wrongness, a fracture in the shape of his very essence. And when he dreamedโoh, how he dreamedโthere was no silence, no consuming void. Instead, there was a voice, a thing vast and impossible, echoing not from the cold halls of the Consigner, but from the distant sea.
๐๐๐ โ๐๐ฅ๐ฆ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ฝ๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
For twenty-five years, Aniah walked the world as a creature both feared and unknowable, bound in servitude to a will not his own. It was upon the eve of that cursed anniversary that the Singers deemed him worthy of a ritual beyond comprehension, a final sacrifice that would bind him wholly to their master, to the dark tally of forgotten souls that fed the Consigner's ever-hungry maw.
In a chamber beneath the city, where the walls wept with unseen moisture and the very air seemed heavy with the weight of things lost, they called forth the final severance. The sacrifice of his body so that the soul would be in complete dedication to the dead. No longer would he be burdened by the tattered remnants of self; no longer would the stray fragments of his past claw at the corners of his perception.
But something intervened.
Even as the incantation reached its apex, even as the great and unknowable force of the Beyond prepared to claim him in full, another force answered.
The world shuddered. The Singers recoiled.
From the depths of the ritual chamber, water seeped forth, thick and briny, the unmistakable stench of the deep unknown rushing to fill the space. And with it came a soundโnot the hollow murmur of the Consigner, but the great and terrible roar of an ocean unseen.
The ritual collapsed.
Aniah awoke not in the sanctum of his masters, but upon a desolate shore, the taste of salt thick upon his tongue. His body bore the same terrible power, his mind still hummed with the song of the Hollow, but his memories were shattered, scattered as though by some unseen storm.
And then, from the tide, the great voice spoke.
โ๐๐ง๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ ๐น๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ ๐๐๐ง๐๐ค
Aniah heeded the call that had long echoed through his dreams, now thundering not only within but woven into the storm-wracked air around him. The heavens raged in a frenzy of seething black clouds and shrieking gales, the sea convulsing as if in violent anticipation. With a numb resolve, he plunged into the abyssal depths, where light faltered and reason dissolved.
And there, amid the crushing silence of the deep, Xeradon awaited.
"You have been misled," the voice of the Deep rumbled, though it did not speak in words as men understand them, but in a language that bypassed all sense, all reason, all sanity. "You have forgotten. You have been stolen."
The weight of realization crushed upon Aniah's fractured mind, the pieces of his existence laid bare like wreckage upon the sea floor. He had been meant for something else. He was not merely a phantom of the Hollow, nor a mere plaything of the Consigner.
He was born of the abyss, a prince of the deep, a child of the tide's relentless hunger.
But what was he now?
Could something so deeply fractured ever be truly whole?
โ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ ๐พ๐ ๐๐๐ค
Aniah, now a stranger to his own dark heart, seeks to forge a new destiny within the city of Regaliaโa beacon of mortal civilization that feels as alien to him as the abyssal depths might to a bird. He dreams not of dominion, but of understanding; not of fear, but of acceptance. Yet, beneath this fragile veneer of hope, the pull of the abyss is ever-present, and the question remains: is his redemption truly his own, or the final act of a greater, unknowable design?
๐ผ๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐๐ โ๐ ๐๐๐ก๐๐๐ช โ๐ ๐ ๐๐ค
There are horrors that lurk not in the Void , nor in the fathomless reaches of the Beyond, but in the fragile whispers of things unremembered. Aniah Grenghost was not merely born, but wrenched from the tide of his rightful inheritance. His father, Xeradon, the behemoth-lord of the abyss, the vast and unknowable sovereign of the southern seas, had cast forth his progeny into the depths of the mortal world. But that destiny was severed, twisted beyond recognition by hands unseenโthe Masked Singers of the Consigner, architects of subterfuge and devourers of memory.
It was in their wretched grasp that he was molded, not as a son of the deep, but as an instrument of hollow silence. The Singers wove his infancy into an unholy artifice of subjugation. They taught him that the self was a thing to be unraveled, that the soul was nothing more than a tether to be plucked and unwound like the hushed echoes of forgotten civilizations.
He did not remember warmth, nor love, nor any gentle touch of familiarity. His world was veiled in cold ritual, his mind shaped to grasp the intangible specters of the Consigner's will. He learned that memory was a thing that could be stolen, that to feast upon the past of another was to claim dominion over their very being. The first years of his life passed in shadowed halls, beneath the murmuring drone of voices that were neither alive nor dead, a child raised upon the whispers of things that had long since been without life.
And yetโthere was something deeper, something just beyond the reach of his mind. A sensation not of silence, but of a roaring tide, an unrelenting call from a place he had never known, but to which his very bones seemed bound.
๐๐๐ ๐น๐๐ก๐ฅ๐๐ค๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ โ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐จ
The great rites of the Singers demand completion, an unmaking of the self so total that no vestige of past life remains. For Aniah, this moment came not in a slow decay of humanity, but in a violent transformationโthe Mortisphage's Curse.
It was on the precipice of his adolescence, in the dim glow of an unseen moon, that he was offered the sickness that would twist his form beyond the mortal condition. His flesh, once merely pallid with the weight of forgotten suns, became something other, luminous and spectral, a thing that glowed with the eerie radiance of decay halted mid-consumption. His very breath became a siphon of vitality, and his gaze, those pale-green orbs trailing with phantasmal wisping light, became a gate through which the past could be unmade.
But there was more.
His words no longer belonged solely to him; they carried the weight of Malefica, a pressure upon the mind of all who heard them. He could steal not only the strength of men, but their very recollectionsโtheir triumphs, their fears, the intimate fragility of their joys. He was no longer a being of mere blood and bone, but a phantom in the waking world, an agent of entropy bound in the flesh of something unfinished.
Yet even as the Singers exulted in his perfection, he felt the weight of something that should not be. A wrongness, a fracture in the shape of his very essence. And when he dreamedโoh, how he dreamedโthere was no silence, no consuming void. Instead, there was a voice, a thing vast and impossible, echoing not from the cold halls of the Consigner, but from the distant sea.
๐๐๐ โ๐๐ฅ๐ฆ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ฝ๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
For twenty-five years, Aniah walked the world as a creature both feared and unknowable, bound in servitude to a will not his own. It was upon the eve of that cursed anniversary that the Singers deemed him worthy of a ritual beyond comprehension, a final sacrifice that would bind him wholly to their master, to the dark tally of forgotten souls that fed the Consigner's ever-hungry maw.
In a chamber beneath the city, where the walls wept with unseen moisture and the very air seemed heavy with the weight of things lost, they called forth the final severance. The sacrifice of his body so that the soul would be in complete dedication to the dead. No longer would he be burdened by the tattered remnants of self; no longer would the stray fragments of his past claw at the corners of his perception.
But something intervened.
Even as the incantation reached its apex, even as the great and unknowable force of the Beyond prepared to claim him in full, another force answered.
The world shuddered. The Singers recoiled.
From the depths of the ritual chamber, water seeped forth, thick and briny, the unmistakable stench of the deep unknown rushing to fill the space. And with it came a soundโnot the hollow murmur of the Consigner, but the great and terrible roar of an ocean unseen.
The ritual collapsed.
Aniah awoke not in the sanctum of his masters, but upon a desolate shore, the taste of salt thick upon his tongue. His body bore the same terrible power, his mind still hummed with the song of the Hollow, but his memories were shattered, scattered as though by some unseen storm.
And then, from the tide, the great voice spoke.
โ๐๐ง๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ ๐น๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ ๐๐๐ง๐๐ค
Aniah heeded the call that had long echoed through his dreams, now thundering not only within but woven into the storm-wracked air around him. The heavens raged in a frenzy of seething black clouds and shrieking gales, the sea convulsing as if in violent anticipation. With a numb resolve, he plunged into the abyssal depths, where light faltered and reason dissolved.
And there, amid the crushing silence of the deep, Xeradon awaited.
"You have been misled," the voice of the Deep rumbled, though it did not speak in words as men understand them, but in a language that bypassed all sense, all reason, all sanity. "You have forgotten. You have been stolen."
The weight of realization crushed upon Aniah's fractured mind, the pieces of his existence laid bare like wreckage upon the sea floor. He had been meant for something else. He was not merely a phantom of the Hollow, nor a mere plaything of the Consigner.
He was born of the abyss, a prince of the deep, a child of the tide's relentless hunger.
But what was he now?
Could something so deeply fractured ever be truly whole?
โ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ ๐พ๐ ๐๐๐ค
Aniah, now a stranger to his own dark heart, seeks to forge a new destiny within the city of Regaliaโa beacon of mortal civilization that feels as alien to him as the abyssal depths might to a bird. He dreams not of dominion, but of understanding; not of fear, but of acceptance. Yet, beneath this fragile veneer of hope, the pull of the abyss is ever-present, and the question remains: is his redemption truly his own, or the final act of a greater, unknowable design?
๐ผ๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐๐ โ๐ ๐๐๐ก๐๐๐ช โ๐ ๐ ๐๐ค
- The Temple's Call: Aniah is drawn inexplicably to ruins that echo with the same sinister energy he once revered. What secrets do they hold, and will they awaken the dark urges he seeks to bury?
- The Abyssal Temptation: Artifacts of immense power, tied to Xeradon's dominion, continue to surface in Regalia. Will Aniah resist their allure, or will his former self claw its way to the surface?
- A Fractured Identity: What happens if Aniah regains fragments of his memory? Will he still seek redemption, or will he reclaim his mantle as a Masked Singer?
โ๐๐ฃ๐ค๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐ช ๐๐๐ โ๐ค๐ช๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ชAniah is a man of shattered purpose, striving to piece together the fragments of a new self from the wreckage of his past. He is driven by a desperate need to atone, though for what, he cannot fully recall. Redemption, to him, is not a goal but a Sisyphean laborโa boulder forever on the verge of tumbling back into the abyss.
๐ฝ๐๐๐ฃ๐ค ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ค๐ค๐๐ค
- The Abyss Within: Aniah dreads the idea that his newfound morality is merely an illusion, a fragile construct destined to crumble under the weight of his darker instincts.
- Isolation: As a creature of shadow and undeath, he is acutely aware of the gulf that separates him from the living. He fears he may never bridge this chasm.
- The Whispering Ruins: Fragments of his past come to him in dreams, visions of temples and rituals he cannot name, but which fill him with an aching sense of familiarityโand dread.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ช ๐๐ฅ๐ฃ๐๐๐๐๐ฃ
In his darkest hour, a human priestโa figure of radiant compassionโtook pity on Aniah and offered him shelter. Though Aniah struggles to understand this altruism, he holds the priest in high regard, even as he fears they may one day see the truth of what he is.
๐๐๐ โ๐๐ง๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ฃ๐ค๐๐๐ก๐ก๐๐ฃ
Aniah is hunted by one who is in devotion to Morrlond. This rival, untouched by the amnesia that plagues Aniah, sees him as a traitor and a coward.
โ๐ ๐๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐ช ๐ค๐ฅ๐๐ฅ๐ค- Attack Stat: Magic
- Defense Stat: Magic
- [14/14 points spent]
- Strength: 0
- Constitution:2
- Resilience pack
- Thread craft pack
- Intelligence: 0
- Wisdom:2
- Soulrend wisdom pack
- Affliction wisdom pack
- Dexterity:3
- Venom pack
- Escapist pack
- Edgewalker pack
- Faith: 0
- Magic:7 (Ordial)
- Displacing (Magic blink)
- Blessings
- Casting
- Territory pack
- Illusionism (Illusioned self)
- Enchanting (Enchanted wall)
- Feral pack
- Charisma: 0
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