Ascension

Standing with his smooth, rounded head tipped back, Avaris simply basks in the
gentle rain of celestial radiance, which flows down across the flawless white of his form like
rivulets of molten gold poured over a statue carved from purest marble. After a long span of this,
he lowers himself into a cross-legged sitting position, his back erect and shoulders set. Placing
his lower pair of hands atop his knees, he brings the upper set together to form an overlapping bowl
of chitin, resting the cupped fingers against his abdomen.

You think to yourself: The essence contained within his soul threatens to overwhelm the constraints
of his will, to break free and run rampant in an uncontrolled deluge of raw power - But he holds
firm, making of his intent a bulwark forged from thick bands of focus. The time given to battling
hordes of gibbering madness upon the astral plane with valiant companions was well spent - He has
learned much, and the fragment of divinity that rests within him crackles and thrums with impatient
energy, burning to flare to its fullness.

A prolonged inhalation expands the curved expanse of Avaris's chest, disturbing the
trickling streams of liquid light that flow down his torso, much of it trickling into the vessel of
his awaiting hands.

You think to yourself: Words bestowed by the Divine are summoned up from the vaults of his memory -
words within easy reach, for he has replayed them often of late. "Deep breath, Avower. Let not wrath
cloud your judgement." Calm. Fortitude. Rash action, a careless, headlong rush into the vestiges of
divinity would not satisfy him. He must be controlled, move with measured intent. Another voice,
softer than the other, but no less strong for it - and dearer by far to his heart, the cherished
memory polished mirror-bright from constant, reverent use. "Trust that small ripples in the water
can travel further than crashing waves." He would make of his essence not a roaring tide, but a
ripple, smooth and controlled.

You think to yourself: This is not the culmination of his path, but the first true, solid step upon
it. A beginning, a strong foundation from which all else will be shaped, be built upon. Smelting
down the raw metal of his being and reforging it into something better, sharper, stronger - He will
make of himself a sword.

Moving with a slow, ritualistic gravitas, Avaris raises his cupped hands -
overflowing, now, with raw, holy light - and holds them above his head, unmoving. He maintains this
posture for a long stretch of time, until he tips his hands back with all the careful deliberation
of a smith pouring molten, liquid metal from a crucible into an awaiting mould. The condensed,
celestial radiance spills over his head in a steady stream, flowing over his form in a gentle tide
of gold that subsumes the white of his carapace in an inexorable advance.

You think to yourself: He turns the focus of his will inwards, gathering the immense, restless
reservoir of essence and applying pressure until it grows still enough to coax forth, drawn
gradually out into a winding river of raw potential. He wields his intent with both the brutal
efficiency of a blacksmith's hammer, and the artful care of a sculptor's subtle hands, guiding the
essence throughout his form and weaving it into the physical and spiritual both. The process is
long, and arduous - The impatient, straining desire to simply /be/ warring with the knowledge that a
weapon forged in haste will be brittle, and snap. So he endures the searing of matter and soul as he
shapes himself, kneading the substance that is Avaris into a form more suitable for his purpose, for
his goals. Larger - An easier target, and golden, to draw the eye and ire of foes. A lodestone for
aggression, for hate, to pull harm from others to himself. Armouring, so that he can endure with
Fortitude, and continue ever onwards no matter the blows suffered. Light, Pure and true, to guide
others to safe harbor, to blind and sear those that dwell in shadow. Eyes, smaller and separate,
less obvious targets. One upon the brow, to signify a desire to see, to grow Wise. Wings, as Her
beloved Supernals possess, to show his Devotion to Her, to the Light.

The transformation from mortal to Demigod is not a rapid one, and nor is it easy.
Much time passes as the cocoon of holy light hardens into a shell of metallic, dull gold, growing
larger as layers and layers of celestial liquid coat the chrysalis. There is the sense of something
changing within, a subtle hint of motion within the adamant vessel as Avaris strives to change
himself in ways more than merely physical.

You think to yourself: The work has drained him in ways that he would struggle to express. He is not
tired, in the sense of long exercise - the opposite, if anything, as he surges and crackles with
energy, but he is weary of will, of the mind. Still, the forging is almost complete. The shape is
right, the details correct, and the stability is to his satisfaction. All that remained now was to
allow it to solidify, to set, to cool. Patience, once more.

Eventually, a stirring. Something begins to move within the aureate cocoon -
slowly, at first, a tenuous motion that grows steadily more confident, more powerful, until the
walls of the chrysalis begin to bulge and writhe. Cracks spread throughout the dull shell,
fragmenting until it is riven through with fractures in a crazed pattern of miniature chasms.
Abruptly, a fist punches through, gleaming like freshly burnished gold - followed by another. Then
again, and again, as all four seek to prise apart the prison of potential and win free. It takes
little time, as chunks are knocked free or shattered entirely, until Avaris emerges, shrugging off
the vestiges of mortality and the crumbling remains of his cocoon. Immense, now, in size, he rolls
his vast shoulders experimentally, flexing his clawed digits as if testing their functionality. The
flowing, sanguine sweeps of his fourfold antennae shift and undulate like streamers caught in a
lively current, shielded by the large, curving blades of the shining crest that adorns his brow. He
stretches his three pairs of wings out wide, flapping them to shake loose any lingering debris, the
glowing, stylised eyes that adorn them blinking as if adjusting to the light.

You think to yourself: "Yes. This will do nicely, I believe. Functional, if somewhat gaudy - Ah, but
that is the point, is it not? Draw the eye, draw the ire." A faint, wry amusement wends its way
across a solid foundation of modest satisfaction. "I only hope that my form does not offend my
Lady."

An imposing figure of titanic proportions, he is a compound-eyed kephera empyreal demigod. Easily
twice the height of a tall man, he possesses a dignified and noble bearing. Six vast wings of gently
effulgent, aureate feathers spread out from his back, bearing a multitude of lucent, stylised eyes
formed of two curving lines and a circle betwixt them - which move and gaze about with eerie
awareness. The shape of his domed head is reminiscent of a knightly helm, the alabaster of his
pointed chin and the wide flares of chitin that form his jaw contrasting with the layered crest of
shining gold that sweeps up and out from his severe brow in broad, curving blades. Seven eyes of
brilliant azure are set into the burnished, aureate visor of his immobile face, three beneath each
side of his brow, with a single, larger one set at the center of his forehead. Flowing up from
behind the prominent crest are two arcing pairs of liquid, red antennae, each thick line of sanguine
aether dense and opaque. An imposing halo of harsh, solid light hovers behind his head, with frozen
tongues of holy flame jutting out in fearsome spikes of varying size. Engulfing much of his upper
torso is a dense, luxurious mane of pristine white fluff, which flows up over his shoulders and
behind his neck in a spray of lustrous tufts. His immense frame is plated in dense chitin of white-
streaked, gleaming gold, the exoskeleton formed in the manner of natural armour - most notably so in
his upper set of shoulders, which are shaped like pauldrons from which a halo of spiked gold arcs,
with a baleful, stylised eye of intense red emblazoned upon them. All four of his arms are thick and
powerfully constructed, the long limbs terminating in pointed fingers that extend from long,
inherently gauntleted hands. His narrow waist juts out into broad hips, from which descend the wide
span of his plated thighs, the digitigrade legs supported by large feet that possess viciously
hooked talons of thin, steeply angled gold, three at the front of each foot, and two upon each heel.

Avaris exhales a slow breath, the air flowing out from him in a prolonged
susurration. Lifting the helm that now forms his head, he turns towards the exit, and strides off,
moving with a natural, stern dignity, despite his vast stature. He trails motes of effulgence gold
in his wake, his wings folded behind him like a heavenly cloak.

You think to yourself: "Now. I have some poetry to study."