Hierophant of the Sacred Skies, Saint Pithos (Patera), Seeker Beyond the Heavens, Grand Archivist of Londinion, Sage of Ascents, Wandering Star, Referent, the Spiral Shift.

Chalice, a holy vessel to be filled and imbibed

Irij exists on the cusp of a golden age, after the fall of the Commune of Lemuria, much was lost to the world as order crumbled in the face of widespread anarchy. Thus was the start of the Age of Ash.

A tragedy on a global scale to be sure, but time heals all wounds, and while the loss of the Lemurians was a grievous one, it too scarred over. Now was the Age of Tinder, a time to rediscover the great many wonders left behind. Wonder and adventure lurked behind every corner for the courageous, and opportunities rose before the particularly conniving.

Ertholt was neither of the two. Like a troll in a particularly small pastry shop, he violently tore his way to the top of the Londinion Archives through a series of daring duels and threats of incredible violence. This meteoric rise in status and ability usurped the natural order of the city and had earned him heavy censure from others.

Within the year he was ousted from his position to the cheers of many. It became clear, however, after annual cataloging of the contents, that Ertholt had not left empty-handed.

His return after many years was met with silence, as all beings could intuit that he had become something beyond the grasp of humanity. Whispers of his deeds and his presence spread across the world as he was embedded in legend.

To practice magic is to try to understand God. Human technique and understanding manipulating divine power to uplift the material world to a higher strata. Such was the practice of magic at it’s core.

Such a noble goal resonated deeply with many, just as many had coveted the power magic had brought.

Perhaps if Ertholt were not as talented, nor as driven as he was, he would have disappeared as one of the latter. Crude, brash, and unyielding in behaviour, Ertholt would barrel through both material and member in his mad dash towards enlightenment.

It was unlike the wise careful image of more wisened scholars, much more respected and thought to be more knowledgeable than he was that would place him in the same category as power hungry spellcasters instead of the respected wizard.

Yet he cared not. What did the heavens care if one seemed to be wise and all knowing, when the stars above glimmered without care of the material world below? Only gross matter cared so much for appearances. As someone who yearned to attain the perspective of God, so to shall he discard petty concerns.

That mindset was justification enough for him to become callous in his approach. And so, like a whirlwind he stormed his way into respected archives without care, retrieving legendary grimoires to decipher. Such actions had him exiled and hunted, but he cared not.

For a year he researched and theorized. For two he gathered material. And for five he waited for the perfect time to divine the name of God.

His ascension was glorious.

His arrival was not.

The sight of the ruins of heavens was shocking, before it gave way to disgust. It would only grow the more he learned of the events that had taken place. Like a hermit he sequestered himself away, pondering upon the revelation he had received. It would not take long before he would come to the conclusion that the realm he had found himself on was but another step in his quest.

And so he sorted his mortal affairs in order, before leaving to further study the celestial realm.

He was an existence to be filled, and to pour. A vessel to inhabit, such was his very nature from inception.

The ritual he had partaken of simply amplified that to ludicrous degrees. Metaphysically Ertholt became a point where things gathered and flowed, encompassing all things within himself. A never-full chalice that was likewise never-empty.

In combination with his capabilities as a magician of supreme might, he leverages his own existence in the casting of spells rather than that of the world.

To become one with God.

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The tattoos of his body are the names of everything he had ever consumed smashed together into abstract shapes. His normal look is a modified version of what he looked like when he started his journey. After consuming all he could, his true body had changed.

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Refinement. To beat at something until it has reached an apex. To put the body through endless punishment to come out as something new, yet still the same. What was once dull becomes sharpened like a thousand folded steel. Reaching ever onwards towards the ideal self.


Arasti’s world, Zām, was but a former shell of itself by the time he was born. What was once originally a beautiful world, filled with the most beautiful forms of fauna and flora, had been reduced to a wasteland. Those that maintained the world, a race of entities known as Yazata, grew lazy and complacent. Instead of their role as defenders, they indulged into their own Hedonism. This led to chthonic monsters known as Daiva to attack and lay siege to the world at large. Capture the men for work, the women for worse purposes, and so on. Daiva and Yazata are special existences in this world, only being able to be killed by a specific type of material. This material being the bones of the opposite species. As this is the case, Blacksmiths are highly valued.

By the time of Arasti’s ascension, the world is even more of a wasteland. Nothing but deserts and the occasional Oasis remain. The war may have killed all of the Yazata and the Daiva, but humanity remains low in population and without any real hope of continued survival.


Watcher, Originally Human


Arasti was born a simple child in the mountainous desert of his homeland. He was a little overweight, something of a blessing for his family. In a time where food was scarce, extra pounds on a baby made all the difference. He grew up to be a healthy child, a rarity in the world they had lived in. The town they had lived in was near the peak of one of these mountains, making it difficult for the Daiva to ever strike. At least, for a while.

Of course, like all good things in Zām, nothing was to last.

For whatever unfortunate reason, the King of the Daiva himself, Dahak, attacked. The city’s walls were erased in a moment. The town’s elite guard nothing before Dahak. Soon, the man’s fellow Daiva would come in and take their new bunch of slaves, Arasti included. Arasti spent his teen years working at the command and direction of the Daiva. The work was unbearable, the food was scarce, and the treatment at the hands of the Daiva were inhumane. It was not uncommon for those kept to either die or be mindbroken within the first few months.

Yet, for some odd reason, Arasti kept his wits.

To say he was fine was a complete lie. He was only a shell of his former self after the first half a year. However, he still remained “Arasti.” That in itself was a miracle. They tried to break it out of him, but even after several years, “Arasti” remained. Saying he was acclimated to this way of life was wrong, it was the opposite really. He kept his identity because he continued to hate every last second he spent. Every single second was spent cursing it all. His hatred was the fuel that let him remain sane, no matter how much it ate at him.

Arasti would have likely spent the rest of his life being tortured and overworked. If not for a mistake by the Daiva Nasu, one of the female Daiva who had taken a liking to him. She left her guard down for a moment in a private session, giving him just enough time to flee. Arasti was fortunate enough that her lodgings were near a forest, giving him time to be lost amongst the woods. While the Daiva spent time looking for some piece of him to scry, Arasti continued to run. And run. And run. Until there was nothing left to give.

But he was rewarded for this sacrifice. His body gave way near a cave, one which held a Yazata. They took him in and nursed him until he awoke. His body was barely alive, but that was all that was needed for something like a Yazata. Arasti eventually opened his eyes, seeing the one-handed Yazata before him. Yazata are creatures which shine with a blue hue, though Arasti had never seen a one with one hand. The Yazata introduced himself as “Tir” and asked for the boy’s tale. Once Arasti spoke, he told Tir his story, ending it with a bow and a plea for help. The Yazata smiled, warning the boy of what horrible thing he had asked for. Arasti continued to beg, ready for whatever the consequences were.

And so, Tir shoved Arasti onto the floor. A ritual was performed, and Arasti's body was burnt. The pain of a burn is something special. It starts slow, but eventually encompasses all sensation as the nerves cling for what little solace they could have. Once the burning was finished, Arasti revealed a severed finger and shoved it down the boy’s throat.

The pain for that was even worse. The body contorted, shifted, and turned into something it was not meant to be. The body was rejecting whatever happened to him. The pain went on for a full 24 hours, but eventually it ended. It subsided. He had survived. Sure, his heart gave up once or thrice during the 24 hours, but he survived.

More than that, he was still Arasti.

Once his consciousness had returned, Tir explained what had happened. In essence, he did a ritual giving a portion of himself to Arasti. This made Arasti into a Yazata, or at least, a portion of one. More importantly, the ritual made Arasti’s body into something that could take in the powers of others. In other words, by devouring others, Arasti would gain their power. In essence, to devour others was the only path forward.

He rejected this truth. He cursed Tir and fled. He lived the next year in this delusion. However, all things must return to reality. In order to fight back against the evils in this world, Arasti would devour.
And so he devoured. And devoured. And devoured. Whatever antagonistic force came in his way was devoured. Daiva, Yazata, or even humans. It stopped mattering, it was all done to free them all.

Yet, he remained Arasti.

During this time, he had built his own army. The Yazata, who were content spending their lives in a hedonistic lull, had become corrupted. Much like the Daiva, they too needed to be eradicated. And so, the war was waged. The world was embroiled in war, spearheaded by Arasti. A once simple man who had wanted to bring peace to the world. However, in doing so, he had only ensured its destruction.

Arasti defeated the King of the Daiva, Dahak, as well as the King of the Yazata, Sraosha. However, the cost was not worth it. The lives lost were at too great of a scale. Arasti had achieved power incomparable to anyone else, but it was meaningless in the end. Humanity was doomed. At the end of this quest, could Arasti still consider himself Arasti? More importantly, could he live with himself as the monster he had become? It is what happened, right? His actions doomed them all? Arasti was the greatest of monsters!

Once again, the man refused. He had refused this fate. He had refused this destiny. And so, he began to find another path. The next few years of his life involved going through the ruins of the world, finding whatever notes he could. In comparing the combined knowledge of the Yazata, Daiva, and Human, Arasti found the truth he had searched for. The ramblings were nothing on their own, yet when combined gave a name. A Key, in other words. The Key of Forge.

And so he left his world. He would fix it. He would fix it if it meant deleting the existence known as “Arasti.” The hellish existence of the Ruin World seemed normal to Arasti. In fact, it reminded him of home. That both brought comfort, but unnerved him in a way he has yet to pin down.

These contradictory emotions have yet to leave

His time in this world is mostly isolated, spending most of his time with his own thoughts and plans to fix this broken Multiverse.

In this world, will he remain Arasti?



Arasti spent most of his life fighting with his fists, simply punching and restraining those that faced him. As his physical strength only grew with those he devoured, his physical abilities are “otherworldly.” He has changed his fighting style since The War, however. The consumption of others does not provide specific knowledge, but it does grant him their techniques, which also scale. In this specific instance, he had used the combined knowledge of all the Yazata and Daiva swordsmen, making him a once-in-a-universe Sword Saint. He has also begun to incorporate magic into his fighting, using it as a means to teleport around the battlefield.

He broke off portions of his own existence, using the monsters he had consumed as the basis, and created swords with them. These swords can transform back into their monstrous forms, though for ease of collecting, they're almost always kept as swords. Normally, he keeps them locked up in a miniature pocket dimension he can interact with on demand, though again this is rare. Their greatest use is as an army in case it is ever relevant. As they’re parts of himself, Arasti can shift damage done to him to them. Arasti prefers to use his prized swords, forged from the remains of the Kings of the Daiva and Yazata. One, a blade of pure black, and the other a mirror in white. In essence, they represent his world’s embodiment of “Good” and “Evil.” They carve apart their opposites, making them conceptually the perfect weapon for Arasti.

Despite him amassing tons of magical knowledge from those he had eaten, his homeworld was
fairly sparse with it. He fails compared to a genuine Mage, though his skill compared to the uninitiated would be awe inspiring. As this is the case, he mostly uses magic to dart around battlefields, hold his sword/army or use it as a ranged attack. His knowledge in magic theory is pretty solid though. Ultimately, he still sort of prefers just stabbing his problems.


Arasti’s goal is to create and ensure peace and stability among the Multiverse, regardless of the method there.