Rethyx

Rethyx stands tall, his lithe frame reaching well over seven and a half feet, though his presence carries the weight of something far more vast—like the shadow of a tree that should not grow where it does. His skin is a smooth, unbroken white—bone-pale and faintly reflective in certain lights, like bleached stone worn down by centuries of wind and heat. Not a single blemish or freckle mars the expanse of his body, save where mechanical replacements interrupt the perfection: his right arm and left leg, both masterfully crafted cybernetic limbs that appear grown rather than built, fused with sinew-like cables and etched with faint black script—remnants of a language long erased from his people’s memory.

Every angle of Rethyx is tailored for movement: from the taut musculature of his abdomen to the exaggerated flexibility in his double-jointed limbs. His body is lean, athletic, shaped more like a predator of trees than a brute of the battlefield. His shoulders are narrow but defined, with arms that can stretch unnaturally far when needed. His spine arches with a subtle curve that hints at his arboreal past, and his tail—a long, muscular appendage tapering to a subtle fin-like edge—acts as counterbalance and whip alike, swaying with eerie stillness until provoked.

From each side of his head emerge two pairs of elongated, elven-like ears—four in total—finely tuned to catch the smallest tremors in the air. The upper pair flicks and pivots independently from the lower, each motion layered with silent meaning among his kind. His face is sharp but androgynous, with high cheekbones and a smooth jawline that lacks any hint of stubble or coarseness. His lips are thin, his expression stoic more often than not, unreadable without context. Where one might expect brows, his skin rises and falls in faint ridges—natural contour replacing hair entirely.

His most arresting feature is his eyes: entirely black. No whites, no irises—just deep, liquid obsidian orbs that drink in light rather than reflect it. There is no warmth in them, only stillness—like the gaze of something ancient that remembers too much. In moments of rare emotional breach, a shimmer passes through them like bioluminescence in deep water.

Rethyx wears nothing, unless engaged in ritual or rare formalities. His kind, born of a survivalist culture that shunned adornment, viewed clothing as armor for the weak or a mating token for the committed. Even in exile, he honors that law. Where organic form ends, the mechanical begins: his cybernetic arm and leg bear aesthetic integration—black striations that resemble ink dripped onto melting porcelain, contrasting against the purity of his living skin. Though obviously synthetic, these limbs are no crude replacement. They are elegant, lightweight, made to mimic his natural grace with uncanny precision.

From a distance, Rethyx might seem divine—statuesque, almost celestial in design. But up close, the subtle dissonance reveals itself: the silent twitch of his tail, the way his jaw tightens before he speaks, the faint hiss of his mechanical limb adjusting its balance. He was made for a world of trees and silence and blood. Now, he walks among metal and dust and ghosts, carrying both exile and elegance like a banner stitched from shame and survival.