Original Nexialist

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He seems to always be watching — as if more than two eyes observe the world through him. His leather coat doesn't feel artificial; it breathes, as though it once belonged to something vast, now scattered into fragments of the Nexialist. He wears gloves not for protection, but to hide the marks on his hands — marks that might explain everything.

Divine Nexialist

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They now restrain the masculine, the feminine, and the divine. His white wings don't seem born of him, but torn from an angel — stitched into his flesh like a memory not meant to be his.

Flat Nexialist

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He moves as if flattened — not born that way, but shaped by force, as if punishment had pressed him into the ground. His gait betrays a past untouched by deformity, yet marked by a silent consequence for something long buried.

T-Rexialist

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He remains preserved, a relic of the Cretaceous — ancient, intact. His mouth is sealed, silencing the roar that once shook the earth, yet he runs faster than all who came after.

Guillotineexialist

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He arrived straight from the French Revolution, but they mistook him for royalty. Now, he speaks only through signs and reads the world in Braille — as if silence were the last form of resistance.

Peganexialist

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In the beginning, they used the Peganexialist to seek new worlds — a homunculus born of a Pegasus egg, its wings torn away before it ever dreamed of flight.

All Listening Nexus

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He is ever present — listening to all, whispering to one. In shadows he moves, unseen, until the evidence surfaces. And then, he erases you.

Isosceles

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There is no need for a face — she has evolved beyond it. She imagines what is, and what will be. Her nails are painted with the blood of battles long past. Her dress and boots are woven from the wool of spacefaring sheep. Around her neck hangs a necklace with a photo of...

Isosc3l3s

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The party and entertainment version of Isosceles — brighter, louder, and impossible to miss. Its hue pulses like neon in a midnight crowd, shaped for visibility, born to be seen.

Void Pony

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A creature of darkness — a shadow among shadows. She glides through the night, cloaked in black, as if the void itself gave her birth. She feeds on what’s left behind, what’s forgotten, the scraps of others — for she would never dare touch a king’s feast. Her eyes glimmer among the ruins, hungry, resigned, yet eternal.

Beyond Face

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The angelic face — pure and untouched — crowned with an aureola that pulses with the colors born beyond the gates to the world of the chosen.

Re-Upload

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Your body is constantly re-uploading itself — no being can bear it for long. It is black and white, for it was born of both light and darkness.

The Guardian

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He is the guardian of the keys to the gate of the Chosen’s world — forged from the wood of trees long extinct, lost in nature’s rebirth. Bound to it is oil, drawn from the machinery that rules all things. Its scent carries the memory of sulfur and fate.

Bycealist

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Your bike is no longer ordinary — it’s crafted beyond reason, now soaring over the moon. Your staff calls forth roads bathed in light and summons winds that lift you gently through the skies.

Espacialexialist

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Made to dwell between worlds — in the vastness of space, with nothing but distant stars for company. A helmet to breathe, a shield against the silence that would swallow all.

Yin

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one of the twin creators of darkness and light, this is the creator of light

Yang

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one of the twin creators of darkness and light, this is the creator of dark

Kinda Flower

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The flowers in the garden, bright as the sun and green with life, their faces sing with joy as their branches turn gently toward the light.

Red Spike

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Born of thorns — as cruel as revenge, as cold as envy; each point, sharp enough to shape a blade that could end kings; no heart to speak of, no echo of the human form; it does not belong to this cradle of stars, but drifts from a galaxy where even light forgets its name.

Latex Moonlight

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Your body is liquid night, latex gleaming like trapped moonlight— a second skin of constellations, each curve a rebellion against the dark. Your face, a map of unsung desires, flickers between shadow and revelation, while your crown (call it a hat, call it a throne) tilts just so— as if the stars themselves paused to adjust its orbit.

Perfect Men

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He stands as the living archetype of masculine beauty—a golden measure by which all men across kingdoms are unwittingly weighed. Not by decree, but by the silent consensus of eyes that know perfection when they see it. His form whispers to every culture’s unspoken ideal, as if the gods themselves carved him from their longing.

inevitable

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When you drift, untethered, in the abyss between worlds—that silent expanse where even time forgets its name—he comes. Not as savior nor destroyer, but as the inevitable hand of cosmic realignment. To him, all worlds are equal: gardens and hellfires merely different shades of existence. You will be delivered. The destination matters less than the fact that you are claimed.