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Faces of the Exarchs [Just For Fun!]

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  • Faces of the Exarchs [Just For Fun!]

    Here is the thing- I love the Exarchs. I can't say exactly why, but the are among the my most favorite aspects of the setting. I love reading about them, I love writing about them, and I love to envision how they may look like. While they are, undoubtedly, formless beings, more concepts and symbols than physical entities, I do have tendency to imagine concepts as human-like figures,and that includes the Exarchs. While they may be able to take any image or gender that could serve their goals, in my mind, each has assigned gender, with one exception. As everyone may see the Kings of the Lie differently, it is safe to assume that each has a different image for how the Exarchs may look like- so the goal of this thread is to adore the divine tyrants by detailing how you imagine they look like, if they were to take a human form and walk around you.

    Here is my list-

    The Father- a young man of muscular build, with a vivid, flawless skin. He looks almost like a marble statue brought to life, or a greek god of legend. He has long, silvery hair and beard, yet not out of old- but like the molten metal. His eyes are blue, shining like two pale stars- their light is comforting at first glance, and his smile could melt ones heart. Yet, a closer look would show that like the stars, the light of his eyes is cold and distant, as if they could only see their own light. The eyes themselves, while beautiful, are hard like blue diamonds. His smile doesn't offer comfort- but the smile of a dog owner which presents the new tricks his favorite pet has learned. He wears nothing but a silvery piece of cloth, weaved from angel hair given willingly, and his sits upon a throne crafted from clouds and mists. Around him, stands choirs of angels, all singing and cheering his name- each of them wears a silver collar around its neck, their eyes are blinded by his light and golden blood spills from their dry throats which never stop singing, yet they still smile. They adore him more than any other being in the face of the world, bound by faith which they never questioned.

    The General- a woman, her body is thin and sharp, like a blade. Her hair is grey like storm clouds, with a single line of white crossing through it. She is not particularly handsome- she is pretty plain, actually- but there is something enchanting about her. Her movements are quick as a lightning, and elegant like storm winds. One of her eyes is covered by an eye patch, which is black like night but a closer look would reveal some glowing, red light behind it, like a flickering flame. Her other eye is blue as ice and cold as one, and her look pierce through your soul like a spear. In her right hand she holds a sword, forged in the image of an angel. In the other, she has a gun, curved with words written in Enochian. She wears a grey, scaled armor, gloves to her hands and boots to her feet. Every step she takes sounds like a thunder, and ignites sparks like lightning. The wind blows around her like and eternal storm, while her legions constantly follow her- angels of fire and ice, thunder and lightning. They are ready to fight the world- for anyone who is not a part of them, is the enemy.

    The Unity- a pale, thin man, with a black curled hair.his face are plain- there is no special feature upon them.They are the most regular, average face which has ever been, so much that you could forget them the moment you would look away, never to recognize them once more. At one moment, he looks like your father. Then, like your teacher. Then, like yourself. The only thing which remains constant are his dark, black eyes- which look like endless pits, dark as the heart of the devil. You are meaningless, the eyes say, you are just a single grain of dust in the whole cosmos. He wears an horned helmet, forged from iron and demon blood, and a royal, purple rob. His hands are soft, his steps make no sound. He stands on a great tower, built by the toil of countless slaves from basalt forged from the depths of hell, and at the tower's base thousands of demons circle. Each has a job to do, each has a place in the pattern. They all exist to glorify him, even though by standing among them you could never see it. Be he does- for from the top of the tower, the pattern is revealed. It is his face- made from thousands of individuals forced by an iron heel.

    The Eye- a red headed woman, sitting alone in a dark room. Her skin is pale- white, actually, for she has never left the darkness she lives in. Her hair is red, long and straight, falling like robes of flame from her head. Her white, skeletal fingers are always moving, their nails are long and sharp, giving them a look more of a spider than hands. Her eyes are blueish-green, the colour of poison, and her lips are painted with blood red. A monocle coveres her left eye, a ring of pure gold surrounding a lens of flawless crystal. Strange words cover the ring, written so crowded that no one can ever understand what they say. She wears a long, black and purple dress, upon which are written the sins of every man which has ever lived. She sits on a thin, black chair, made out of burned wood, which barely supports her thin body, as she hold a big book wrapped in human skin between her hands, while she is constantly writing with a black pen decorated with gold. It is not ink she writes with- but demon's blood. All around her are shining screens- some are mirrors, some are computers, some are just floating disks of light. In each of the screens one could see a demon, celebrating in some form of sin. Yet, they do not look like they enjoy the experience- instead, they have a paranoid, haunted look on their face. Their eyes always shift, as if they know that they are watched- but they find nothing. All awhile, she keeps writing, a smile on her lips.

    The Chancellor- a tall, talkative man, his hair is dark brown, his voice is rich like wine. He wears cloths of the finest quality, coloured with royal blue, majestic crimson, noble purple, bright green. His eyes are dark, doted with gold, like mines which hide the treasures of earth. He is constantly on the move, never staying in one place for too long. He wears jewelry- earrings and necklaces, bracelets and pins- but not a crown. He is not a king, he explains, he is just a merchant. His wallets are full, stuffed with coins- some are ancient, made of gold and carry the symbols of lost civilizations. Others are new, from dollars and euros to riyal and yen. Everything he touch turns to gold, everywhere he walks coins fall to the ground. In one of his pockets, there is a single notebook, one which details the countless contracts he have made in exchange for the goods of the earth. Happiness, first child, freedom, lifespan, youth, victory, fate, souls- all could be bought and sold with the right price. All around him, the dead keep digging the ground, harvesting new resources for him. They are those who sold their life to him in exchange for material riches while alive, and now they spend their eternity at gathering new wealth for him. Not that he needs that, he quickly says with his perfect, pearly smile- it is just that you get what you pay for.

    The Psychopomp- a pale woman, covered by shadows. She wears a dark, long robe, with nothing beneath it. Her body is soft, and an aura of cold surrounds her. Her hair is long and grey, moving in the wind like mists. Her eyes are hidden by the shadow of her hood, but you could still feel her look as she watches you. She floats in the air, her feet never touching in the ground, and in her delicate hands she hold a great, black scythe. She stands in the middle of a crossroad, with paths for her right and left, forward and backward. She blocks all ways with her blade, while her shadows slithers and moves bellow her, sending its tendrils toward anyone who dares to try and cross the boundary. Countless ghosts wait on the path, screaming and begging and clinging to her- but she doesn't waver. She is calm and patient, checking each of the dead and compare their names to a scroll she holds in her hand- one which contains the names of everyone which ever died, and which is as long as the Styx itself. From time to time, she wave in her hand, and the fortunate soul goes up to an unknown fate. Most, however, fall down- swallowed by her pitch black shadow, never to be seen again.

    The Prophet- a young man, with old eyes. He is dark skinned, his head and face are shaved. He wears yellow robes, shifting like sand and covered with moving images which detail every important event in the human history. His eyes are pale blue, and show great knowledge- they are the eyes which has seen the birth of every empire and the death of every king, the rise of ever villain and the fall of every hero. Those are the eyes of a visionary, which knows exactly what is going to happen because they saw it again, and again, and again. He doesn't stand in the middle of the scene- but in the corner, watching from the side like every good director. He watch as faeries labor to fulfill his plans, building great monuments to adore all the great leaders of mankind, both heroes and villains, both demons and gods. The statues of the Archigenitors also stand in there, and some of the other Exarchs- but not his. He never stand in the front stage, never takes the glory- for all kings are doomed to fall. He, on the other hand, only stand in the shadow of the kings- he advise them, guides them, and when the moment comes, dethrones them and puts another in their place. From time to time, one of the faeries makes a mistake and strays from his plan. All it takes is a single frown to replace the rebellious slave and fix the mistake, and everything is back in order. All according to the plan.

    The Ruin- red haired woman dances alone. There is no music to follow her steps, but a weird melody she hums to herself. Her movements are slow, beautiful, and perfect. She wears a rust-red dress, which looks like it was weaved from countless little chains. She dance barefooted on the snow white floor, even though the floor itself is covered with glass images- each in the shape of a broken dream, an hope that someone once before it crushed from the sky. Those beautiful, delicate dreams shatter under her feet- they cut her flesh, but she shows no pain, no pleasure- only quiet serenity. She smiles as she dance, her feet leaves traces of bloods, creating complicated images upon the floor, scenes of great disasters which wait to fall upon mankind. Away from the circles of blood, fae princes dance beside her- each dance its own way, playing its own music, moving in a different style. It almost looks like a celebration- until you look in their eyes. There is only terror in there, and you understand that they can't stop dancing, and the music is not truly their own. Invisible strings move their bodies like marionettes, rust chains bind their hearts. They dance upon the broken glass until they collapse, yet they won't make a sound- their mouths are tied with the same strings they body does. Eventually, slowly, the dancer's path would lead her to the fallen bodies. She'll dance upon their bodies, just like she dance upon the glasses. She'll look so peaceful as she does- until she'll open her eyes, and in that emerald green, you will only find madness.

    The Nemesis- a tanned, muscular man stands in the shadows of a great fire. He wears a cloak, made from the pelts of skinned animals- bear, lion, jaguar.. wolf. The wolf's seems to take a special place. Complicate tattoos cover his skin, twist and turn into creating the figures of great totems and terrible monsters. His bright blue eyes shine under his hood, his long black hair moves in the wind as if it had life of its own. He holds a sword made from the bones of the beasts he killed, each is a great totem which once served humanity before it fell to his hands. Before him, in the light of the fire, spirits dance and hail his name, twist around the eternal flame. In the darkness beyond the fire, greater totems lurk silently, watch the lesser spirits while whispering prayers of their own. He, however, just stand in the shadows, watching, waiting. Suddenly, the fire flickers, and the shadows changes their place. Light turns to darkness, darkness turns to light. Screams are heard as the spirits of the fire are devoured by the darkness. Curses are heard when the beasts of the dark are consumed by the flames. Few moments after, they adapt to the new situation- and the spirits around the fire return to dance, while those in the dark return to watch. Yet, while they do, they keep their eye to the shadows, and a hint of fear stains their voices- for they know that once the fear would start to fade, the fire would flicker again, while the hunter would keep watching from the shadows.

    The Raptor- a blond woman, covered in mud and dirt, her eyes shine like oak tree. She runs in the wilderness, her muscular body breaks through every barrier which block her way. She rides like the wind, untamable, uncontrollable. She wears practically nothing, but the hides of spirits she skinned with her bare hands. Her nails are sharp like claws, her teeth shine like daggers. She climbs great tree with ease, or striking them down in order to cross a river. she is free and wild, until suddenly- she stops. She sniffs the air, turning around in search for its source. After a few moments, a primal smile shows upon her face, and she lets go a single, blood freezing scream- telling her prey that it was found (which is only fair). She change direction, and rides into the forest, shattering rocks and digging through mountains. She smells the fear, the terror of her prey. From the distance, she sees it- running desperately, trying to escape. A wild howl escapes her throat, and she jumps upon the spirit, shattering its bones, ripping its skin, tearing its flesh. Blood splash upon her, mixing with the mud, covering the ground. She consumes her victim until nothing left- she even sucks the marrow from the bones. After finishing the gruesome act, she smiles. Another hunt was fulfilled. She licks the blood from her palms- when suddenly, she smells another prey. The hunt starts again.

    The Gate- they stand by themselves, silent and still. They are covered with a long, silver robe, wearing soft silvery gloves, and wear silk silvery shoes. To their face, they wear a single mask- made from forged, silvery matter, from the same material as the rest of their cloths. You can't guess their gender, you can't see their identity. When they speak, it sounds as nothing more than a whisper, so silent that you think that it may just be your own thoughts. Their cloths are covered by strange symbols in a language which isn't true- the letters are correct, but the words they create mean nothing. This is the Lie, the one which humanity tells itself since the beginning of time, the one they whisper to the Abyss to keep it calm and steady. Ten symbols cover their mask- symbols written in a language mankind has made up, one they used to shatter the heaven and bind the gods, each from one of their brothers and sisters. The eleventh is not there- it is behind them. A huge gate, forged from the same silvery metal, shaped in the form of their name as it stands upon a silvery road. They hold the key to the gate- but not anyone can pass. Only the worthy who can proof themselves can. Its no silver from which their cloths, mask, road and gate are made off. It is neither platinum nor mercury. It is something much more precious- souls. It is made out of souls. Beyond the gate, there is only a vast darkness, an ocean which knows no horizon. Everyone who asks may get the key- but only those who bring light of their own main survive it. The others would die in that darkness, and become lost and forgotten by all- but them. They will remember. They always do.

    So- what do you think? how do you see the faces of the Exarchs?
    Last edited by LostLight; 08-03-2017, 02:48 PM.


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  • #2
    Originally posted by LostLight View Post
    The Eye- a red headed woman, sitting alone in a dark room. Her skin is pale- white, actually, for she has never left the darkness she lives in. Her hair is red, long and straight, falling like robes of flame from her head. Her white, skeletal fingers are always moving, their nails are long and sharp, giving them a look more of a spider than hands. Her eyes are blueish-green, the colour of poison, and her lips are died with blood red. A monocle covered her left eye, a ring of pure gold surrounding a lens of flawless crystal. Strange words cover the ring, written so crowded that no one can ever understand what they say. She wears a long, black and purple dress, upon which are written the sins of every man which has ever lived. She sits on a thin, black chair, made out of burned wood, which barely supports her thin body, as she hold a bog book wrapped in human skin between her hands, while she is constantly writing with a black pen decorated with gold. It is not ink she writes with- but demon's blood. All around her are shining screens- some are mirrors, some are computers, some are just floating disks of light. In each of the screens one could see a demon, celebrating in some form of sin. Yet, they do not look like they enjoy the experience- instead, they have a paranoid, haunted look on their face. Their eyes always shift, as if they know that they are watched- but they find nothing. All awhile, she keeps writing, a smile on her lips.
    I'm sorry, but all I can think is: oh my god, Futaba Sakura is an Exarch! Now that would sure be an interesting entry on the "fictional characters in CoD" thread


    A god is just a monster you kneel to. - ArcaneArts, Quoting "Fall of Gods"

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    • #3
      I know it's not quite the thorough descriptions you have here, but there was a piece of art for a Visual Novel series I saw once that immediately made me think of the Exarchs (portrayed as individuals). It's not nearly as pertinent without the context from the source media, alas.

      Last edited by YeOfLittleFaith; 08-03-2017, 02:48 PM.

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      • #4
        I'm a little surprised by your take on their genders, IIRC they're specifically both/neither except for the Father. Also, the Father is totally an old angry guy with a big white beard, c'mon!

        I'm actually running a game now where the Exarchs are more prominent and player-facing than the default setting suggests, and I'm planning to represent them with symbols along the lines of the Kali yantra, or the calligraphic writing of Muhammad's name, or just the letters YHVH. I tend to imagine my games as illustrations or comic books rather than live action, and I like the idea of my PCs arguing with a gigantic hieroglyph of an eye, or the smiley face, or a genetic map of a cancer cell.

        Option two would be stock photos of smiling professionals in business suits. It can't just be a portrait, it specifically has to have that staged "prioritize tomorrow's paradigm today!" quality. Official portraits of politicians and business and religious leaders, changing them every few minutes, would also be fun. Gotta get that Brechtian epic theatre quality by pitting the PCs against like, Brezhnev and Mother Teresa and Bob Dylan.

        There's this great scene in Serial Experiments Lain where the protagonist is talking to representations of the computer world, embodied by floating lifeless mannequins of her parents and family, but clearly not actually those people. It's like the game engine is using their models to represent different characters, but it didn't quite load properly. Or the bit in MGS2 where the Colonel glitches out and harasses you over the codec, and it's increasingly obviously just an evil AI using his appearance to mess with you. That kinda stuff is the Exarchs to me.
        Last edited by Caladriu; 08-03-2017, 02:41 PM.


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