Of all the things he is and is not, of all the lofty goals for his own future he may have, Ephrem is largely an unassuming individual in stature, physically weak and bordering on downright fragile. His prowess sits squarely in his mind and endurance, not his physical form. Thin and lanky, relying on a cane to walk when bouts of chronic pain wrack his body, he looks like one shove might topple him over… but one look at the burning intensity within his ember hued gaze is enough to warn most that he is not to be trifled with. It’s a different experience entirely to feel Ephrem watching you, like he is analyzing your very soul and body and not what you try to outwardly project, two piercing eyes set within deep, sunken features and black under bags that never seem to fade. When using his powers, whatever they may be, they turn a deep, desolate black, engulfing everything like a candle snuffed out at night. They say your eyes are windows to your soul, and his certainly mirror the ruthlessness hidden within him. It is a good thing, too — one thing that Ephrem suffers from is that, despite his regally handsome appearance, his face is extremely inexpressive, all of his emotions swimming solely within his gaze. Beyond furrows of concentration in his brow and the faintest of frowns when he is displeased with something, rarely does an outward emotion grace his features.

One sharp, oddly shaped jagged scar runs across the left side of his face, down from his eyes, deep black in color as if necrosis had overtaken it. Though this is his most visible scar, it is not his only one, several other jagged scars spanning his bodies, most clustered around and seemingly expanding outward from his heart. Though not scarred on his hands, he wears gloves often to cover up the dark ombré that appears to have started at the tips of his fingers, now reaching his knuckles before fading into warm flesh tones once more, all consequences of his abuse of life drain powers and reckless abandon with which he pursues his goals. His body is also littered with countless freckles, like the stars themselves kissed his flesh when he was born.

Though neat in his appearance, his clothes always tailor made to both his comfort and impeccable fashion, his hair always seems to be escaping the ponytail he tries to keep it in, tied back by ribbons. Most of his wardrobe leans towards warm, dark hues and golds, and all of it a pleasing texture that he can handle wearing on the daily without negative overstimulation. Though he doesn’t wear heavy amounts of jewelry, most of his richer accents coming from nice trims on his clothing, he is partial towards earrings, and always wears a single signet ring with an eye engraved upon it on his pointer finger. Despite living in the colder regions of Halo these days, he still takes fashion over function whenever he can, and so even his heavier and more cold appropriate clothes tend to lean towards his very specific aesthetic. Always strapped to his person are a plethora of books, scrolls and other select parchments, usually by means of satchel or case, and he never seems to go far without some tools of his trade close at hand, fingers constantly itching for his ink and quill to write with.

He carries himself with an air of regality befitting his former position, though he lacks the severity of the pride that many upper class citizens perhaps tend towards. He values his dignity and his appearance, and so all his movements are trained to be precise and calculated, giving him an almost alien, ethereal aura. When not holding a book, quill or other scholarly item, he tends to keep his arms folded neatly behind his back, where he can hide the occasional fidget that stressful social situations bring about. Though he needs a cane at times, it does little to mitigate the intensity of his presence — if anything, there’s sometimes something fetching about a well dressed man who knows his worth with a cane.

I. HUBRIS

It is almost midnight, the sky outside a deep, desolate black, stars shimmering in the distance, gazing upon Caido with a patience infinitesimal. They have seen these lands a million times, and will see it a million times more... and tonight he wonders if he may yet join them. A man sits in his office, basking in the golden hue of the fire trapped within fragile glass. It flickers, dances, mirroring and in tune with every steady breath its owner takes, with each swift stroke of his blackened quill, gliding across parchment with the ease and practice of someone who has done this many times before. His latest charge: a simple book, filled with untapped possibilities, his mind already brimming with potential. It all seems so easy, step by step, the theory of it flawless. Of course, it is never that easy - perhaps mastering something like fire, like life is nothing beyond his capabilities if he pushes himself to it (and he certainly does, every night, after he is done archiving whatever new item falls into his hands in the day) -- but becoming a deity is something else entirely. Theory could only help him so far, scrolls and archives of demigods being chosen texts that could offer him nothing that he didn't already know -- that he needed a god's approval, that so far in all of recorded history all the signs pointed towards the fact that it was impossible to simply ascend... and yet it doesn't stop him, and he doesn't shy away from the challenge. After all... if the gods abandon you, what else remains but an unshaken belief in yourself... in your ability to overthrow everything that had ever hurt you, and the urge to keep going out of arrogant spite? Who was to say he couldn't become a god, and laugh in the faces of everyone who had forsaken him? The stars watch silently as he continues to work, ambition mixed with hubris mixed with arrogance, the perfect storm coming together in Ephrem.

To say that Ephrem is arrogant would be an understatement, his pursuit of knowledge reaching levels of hubris reserved for either the boldest, smartest, or plain most idiotic of people. In truth, his hubris stems from one thing and one thing alone: abandoned by the gods, by the people around him, he has nothing left to lose... and the promise of untold power sounds oh so alluring when you've been given nothing but the tantalizing taste of it. Blessed yet simultaneously cursed with innate magic, seen as something to be discarded by the gods themselves despite his inherent power, Ephrem quickly grew to despise Caido's divine overlords, setting out to learn how not just to live without them, but to ascend them, to become more than anyone thought possible of a mortal. His pursuits led him to Halo's Arcane Academy, seeking means to becoming god adjacent, ignoring any and all logic and reason. Was it impossible? Maybe -- but nothing short of death was going to stop a man as arrogant in his abilities as him in his quest to achieve untold power and immortality, and to his credit -- he has nothing to lose by chasing it.

II. CURIOSITY AND OBSESSION

The chasm is deep where he stares into it, seemingly endless, a gaping, severed wound of a void staring back at him. His heart flutters within its cage, a trapped bird yearning to be set free from its prison, sending palpitations cascading down his body. He shivers, but it isn’t out of fear (or, perhaps more accurately, not only out of fear) already prepared to jump into the unknown. There is nothing he won’t jump into with enough foresight, no secret he will willingly leave uncovered. The universe will be in the palm of his hand. It has to be. He can see no other outcome on the horizon, devoured by his obsession.

You cannot hope to achieve godhood if your hubris isn’t matched by your obsession, and Ephrem has both in equal droves, matched beat for beat, one always fueling the other like orouboros constantly chasing its own tail. To put it lightly, he is obsessed with his goals, and seems unable to take them lightly, their very essence consuming his every waking hour, his very soul. There doesn’t seem to be a single moment he takes that isn’t at least partially dedicated to bettering himself, to acquiring knowledge that will push him beyond the mortal veil. His obsession is, at least, matched in equal parts with his insatiable curiosity about the world. It feels like there is a gaping void within Ephrem, constantly yearning to be filled with all manner of untapped knowledge and potential, and he listens to it with abandon. It is his god, where others are not, and perhaps one day his unchecked obsessions will devour him whole. His obsessive personality seems more a cause than a result of his search for power — this isn’t the only thing he can’t seem to focus on in moderation, even if it’s his most destructive tendency. It seems that no matter what goals Ephrem has, he cannot approach them without fully dedicating his heart, body, mind and soul to it until he sees it done. He is a man that works in timelines, in goalposts that constantly seem to move forward, counting the days not by changing seasons but by whether or not his goals have been achieved yet, and how many days he has left before he does if they are not. Because of his tendency towards obsession, he makes for a rather poor lover, though thankfully romance is the furthest thing from his mind right now.

In his defense, this obsession with knowledge and power goes hand in hand with Ephrem’s intelligence. Equipped with the mind of a scientist, creating theories then testing them with ruthless precision, he is well equipped to handle anything he decides to fixate on.

III. APATHY

The child is dying before him, and yet he is empty, devoid of emotions most would consider normal — appropriate, even. On a base, factual level it is tragic — it is a life that could have served a greater purpose if given the time to mature and develop. It could have become something useful in his grand design, though of course there was no proving that it would be anything more than a passing memory to him, either. In this moment, so close to the void, it’s potential is nothing more than a series of what ifs, and he doesn’t care to waste breath on them. He stays, though, because it is the respectful thing to do. He will not be rude and start philosophizing to the people here about life, death, and everyone’s inconsequential place within the universe — especially forgotten by the gods. Hands crossed neatly behind his back, he watches the proceedings quietly. He can, at least, say that he hopes the child will not continue to suffer. It serves no grand purposes to prolong their pain, and he wonders if it would be a mercy to help them move on. Inexperienced as he may be with all things social, he at least has the foresight to know he shouldn’t ask.

Through no fault of his own and not out of any sense of callous cruelty, Ephrem struggles severely with empathy, oftentimes viewing the world in things that directly benefit him, and things that don’t, and forgets that people may not see the world in such apathetic ways. He finds it difficult to relate, then, to individuals, though he does not do it out of malice, and if he is told he is being apathetic to the point of cruelty, he will make a point to at least attempt to change his behavior. It does not always work, as it’s difficult to teach someone empathy if it doesn’t come naturally to them, but rest assured that he does not mean to hurt even if it comes out that way at times. Unfortunately not many have the patience or oversight to realize that he isn’t doing it on purpose, and understandably it nets him very little in the form of companionship. While he is introverted and doesn’t require a lot of attention, it still hurts sometimes when he realizes he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, and yet everyone elects to ignore him.

IV. QUIET REGALITY

The curve of his nose, the set press of his pursed lips as he reads over faint script on fragile parchment, dark lashes framing eyes like embers, staring at the text with a blazing intensity that it was a wonder he wasn’t burning holes through it. Long, practiced fingers flit through pages of translation, seeking his answers with ruthless precision, mind sharpened by years of work to find exactly what he is looking for in under five minutes… less, sometimes. He makes a regal image, sitting in his office like that, clothes a fine silk, engrossed in his work. A man of upper class stature, and yet his work seems so modest these days, a welcome juxtaposition to all those who came from his position only to squander it on ego.

Despite all his faults, Ephrem has a very regal disposition to him, one that isn’t arrogant in the ways he is when it comes to his goals. As a person, when cut off from his obsessions at least for the moment, Ephrem is well spoken, quiet and reserved, mind running a million miles per hour yet lips shut until he has something precise to say. While perhaps awkward in his socialization when it comes to all things feelings, he makes for good company if you like someone who carries themselves with an air of dignity without it being overbearing. He doesn’t necessarily think himself better than everyone else, after all, even if he seeks to achieve godhood. His goals have nothing to do with the mortals around him who are equally as blasphemed as him even if they do not see it. His issue with the gods and the gods alone, and with his fellow people he at least attempts appearances that warrant their respect, and certainly tries to return that respect in kind.

ACT I. THE FORSAKEN

He was born in the coldest season, though it mattered little when his family called Torchline their home, and yet it still seemed to set up the rest of his life perfectly: the cold, ever present backdrop of the void. The gods didn't celebrate his emergence into the world — he was tainted with magic, stolen something that wasn't his to have. Abandoned. It sounds so severe, but to a child it is nothing but mindless babble. There still comes a time when a child grows up, however, and when the gods are quiet to your prayers, it comes barreling towards you much faster. When he was merely twenty, barely out of the yoke of his youth, the gods took the only other thing he had left: his parents. Left to his own devices, even if admittedly better off than most given his family's favorable presence in Torchlight, years of tumultuous history led him down a bitter path of hubris, suddenly his only goal that to spite the gods who sneered at him themselves. Taken with this new obsession, the once quiet and largely unassuming boy suddenly threw himself at all manner of magical practice and malpractice, pushing the limits of his body as far as he could take them to prove that they had all made a mistake scorning him before he was even a proper boy. Gifted - cursed? - with the manipulation of the very lifeblood of those around him, he was convinced that he could rival the gods in power with enough time and practice. After all: history had proven that demi gods could ascend. Why not, then, could fully fledged deities emerge from the shadows of those who had abandoned them as well?

ACT II. THE CATACLYSM

Mortal bodies were never made to withstand powers of the gods, not without years of practice. Push something slowly each day and it may yet become malleable — force it past it's limits prematurely, and it will snap and break. It was a miracle that he didn't die when he tried to control powers far beyond his capabilities, tapping into the wild surge of magic within himself with reckless abandon as if it could somehow make him stronger faster. He wears the consequences of his actions on his skin to this day, scars marring his body, skin turned black where he almost drained it completely of its lifeblood. Ever since then, he hasn't known a week without bouts of chronic pain, walking sometimes a struggle, veins on fire as they remember the echoes of the suffering he had gone through before he was pulled out of the gutters of his own hubris. He learned from his mistakes - he was one of the lucky ones who could after such an arrogant display of hubris... and yet at the same time he learned so little. Yes, he doesn't push himself past what he can do anymore, taking it one step at a time... but if anything, the cataclysm did the exact opposite of dissuade him from scorching his path into history. After all, he didn't die, did he? He was alive to continue, if with more due caution.

ACT III. THE ARCHIVIST

His research and training continued indefinitely in Torchlight until 315 PC, when he arrived to Halo less than a year ago upon hearing whispers on the air of the Arcane Academy's reestablishment. Taken to studying the arcane arts for reasons related to his goals, he joined first as a student, then as an archivist, finding that he was exposed to far more interesting, hands on history and methodology when among the hundreds of scholarly books and magical items that passed through the Academy's halls. He took it upon himself to archive all he could, simultaneously penning the past while using it to ever push forward in his pursuit of godhood.

VOICECLAIM || Timothy Watson (see: Raith Skaddar from Spellforce)

SMALL NOTE ABOUT HIS VIBES || I am well aware that becoming a god may not actually be something achievable by any player characters, and it is not like an end all goal for me to have with him, I just think it would be fun to roleplay a guy who 100% believes in his abilities to become a god and for that hubris to put him into Situations:tm: