NAME: Cyanide, Silence Incarnate
PRONOUNS: He/Him
MAGE CLASS: Archanist → Chronomancer / Psychic / Shifter
LINEAGE: Infernal & Eldritch → Demon
SUBTYPE: Shadows → Assassin
ERA PLACEMENT: Post-2150 AD — The Age of Mages
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In the black interval after the Threshold, when the Rift tore open and the world forgot how to count its own heartbeat, there came into being a name not born, but whispered — a name shaped from poison and prophecy. Cyanide, Silence Incarnate. He did not rise with fanfare nor fall with honor. He simply was, and where he passed, time recoiled.

He is remembered — if memory can be trusted in his presence — as a Dark Rift-Born, a Demon drawn forth not from flame, but from stillness. Not the wrathful fury of the Pit, but the venomous calm that precedes the collapse of breath. His Aetherelite did not howl when it bonded. It sighed, a sound like graves closing and clocks failing. Scholars of the Radiant Veil later argued the being that chose him had no name in the mortal tongue — only an absence so complete it gained shape. To this entity, Cyanide offered not worship, but kinship.

Cyanide’s flesh bore no scent of brimstone, no herald of ruin. His first victim died smiling, mistaking the moment for mercy. His relic was not blade nor flame, but a Crown Relic forged of still-light — a circlet of obsidian and memory that bent thought and time to its bearer’s will. Through it, Cyanide did not kill with violence, but by removing moments — erasing reactions, freezing choices, unraveling decisions before they became acts. Assassination was not art for him. It was an act of purification.

His Aethercraft manifested in three crucibles:

Chronomancy, allowing him to stall seconds or fracture minutes so that cause and effect turned to mist.

Telekinetic rupture, subtle yet surgical, crushing bone or blade from afar without sound.

Shapeshifting, not flamboyant but functional — a face that could slip into anyone forgotten, a shadow that learned how to breathe like others.

He walked alone but never unguided. His good was resilience, laughter once known, and a strange reverence for those who chose to survive. His evil, however, was seeded in a deeper place — vengeance stitched into the marrow. Those who once controlled him, betrayed him, tried to bind him to leash or order… they vanished. Not slain. Erased. Even the memory of their cruelty became fog.

He aligned neither with Eldritch cult nor Dominion warlord. He owed fealty to none. Many whispered he acted at the behest of The Harrow — that his work hastened the entropy of thought itself. But records from Bleeding Eye oracles tell a different tale: that Cyanide warred against the Harrow, slaying its nodes and disrupting its collective mind. “He silences the screamers,” one Oracle wrote. “He is what the Harrow fears becoming — one mind, incorruptible, and alone.”

But flaw is the crucible of legend. Cyanide’s flaw was not power — it was recklessness paired with distrust. In times where coordination was life, he refused it. When alliance offered longevity, he spurned it. Many missions died with him absent. Some victories cost too much because he would not yield. His refusal to forgive, to wait, to listen… shattered bridges that may never be rebuilt.

Yet even those who curse his name dare not raise their voice in doing so. For the quiet around Cyanide was not metaphor. It was doctrine. His enemies forgot how to scream. His victims died with breath still held. And his legacy is carved not in monuments, but in places where things are no longer remembered.

Cyanide, Silence Incarnate, is not a name that ends.
It is a name that undoes endings,
and walks away before the moment realizes it's over.