Nephilim symbiotes are capable of bleeding clothing from their ichor mass.
“Show, not tell.” Every writing mentor would drill that in me. I do have a problem with just diving in repetitive nuances. It comes with the field of anthropology. In an attempt to prevent you, the dear reader, from being bogged down by monotonous amount of detailed lore, I want to present some insight of my tabletop’s world as narrative fiction. Today we glean a bit about the Nephilim and a little of the Tetsujinn class. The two are not mutually exclusive, but I have a head canon of characters in my head to represent aspects of my game’s living world.
It’s the first quarter of the Golden Sun.
This is my record, a refuge for thoughts and fragments of a past that continues to erode each day. I live day to day knowing that there will be a time I won’t remember any of it. My previous life before Va’lira Genma still visits me in my dreams, but those memories rip from my mind like the golden leaves caught in the season’s storms. Each morning more memories are lost while I wake in a cold sweat. It all will disappear.
We were a culture without peers called the Agnenaki, the seed bearers, and our kingdom made the tapestry among the known cosmos. What is left of the Agnenaki has taken the name Nephilim. Our true name and maladies are hidden from from the dream folk that call themselves the Alira. They have stolen our words, repurposed our machines, and have adapted from mere illusions to living creatures.
We’ve lived among the Alira since their conception from Sophia. It’s not the popular opinion, but there is a lot we can learn from their ability to change. Unfortunately the amount of contact I have is tightly restricted. Nephilim leadership has limited my access and time spent in Kessura. The fear is that my advanced symptoms could lead to an unwanted discovery. After all of this time, what they don’t know about us is our hunger. It’s our compromise and necessary shame to continue living.
Our current existence is plagued each day by this symbiote, an umbral ichor coursing in our bodies. It keeps us safe from the Archon spawn, but it demands a nourishment of blood. The sentient presence is in a constant, quiet conversation with my mind. I am among the few suffering unique effects from the union. I can keep my hunger at bay, but a hard carapace resembling armor has molded itself to my flesh. It takes considerable mental coaxing to try and convince it to conceal itself, and sometimes it’s as futile as wrestling with my own shadow.