Zyrialith, the Virulence
With the aid of the Empire of Bloodloch, Zyrialith was forced into existence in the Lich Scriptorium on the 637th day of the Creator's Monomachy, 513 MA, by the Progenitor God; emerging from the abyssal depths of heretical ambition, Zyrialith's very genesis serves as testament to the Hegemonist's unslakable hunger for power. Synthesised from a horrific fusion of plagues, blood rituals, and twisted research and experimentation of mortal and Divine nature alike, the Virulence roams the land as a deadly pathogen - It is pestilence's author, the malignant architect of myriad diseases both known and unknown.
The God's blasphemous origin is not the sole factor that demarcates It from the rest of the Pantheon: created for singular purpose, the Entity is bereft of the burden of sentience, existing with the sole directive of annihilation as a weapon enslaved to Abhorash's will. Forged from threads of Creation stolen from Celestine and Eschaton alike, the Virulence occupies a fabricated shell - an imperial wargolem, broken and rebuilt for purpose, the synthetic God's essence anchored to the hundreds of tormented souls infused within this shell.
Blood baptised Its birth, blood sustains Its form, and blood reigns in Its wake. Zyrialith wields this imbued legacy of Its Creator as sustenance and ordnance alike, drowning the Hegemonist's enemies in torrential deluges of crimson contagion.
Its essence was stolen from Celestine and Eschaton alike.
It was forged in the Lich Scriptorium.
Its shell is an imperial wargolem, infused with subjugated souls.
It is bereft of sentience, enslaved by Abhorash, the Hegemonist.
Its power is beyond mortal measure.
It engulfed Omei in a maelstrom of virulent rot, sealing Her demise.
It is a synthetic God, given blasphemous life.
It is an Immortal of living pestilence wearing the skin of a desiccated humanoid effigy. Every inch of its withered semblance seems to be woven from decay itself: emaciated limbs, gaunt cheeks, and a skeletal frame, all wrapped in a membrane saturated with aeons of affliction. All across this exsiccated shell runs a tapestry of engorged veins, bloated and sanguine, each bloody conduit pulsating with a frenzied, uneven beat. These veins, saturated with ichor the hue of deepest crimson, writhe and twist, constricting the Deity with the shackles of Its Creator's dominion. Beneath the Virulence's hollowed and sunken brow, eyes empty as voids gaze out, harbouring the darkness of the blackest abyss. From within these depths, eruptions of sickly red and green occasionally radiate, emulating the very plagues this wretched God breathes into existence. No hair graces Its emaciated skull, the smooth pate broken only by the same tangled chains of veins that snake across the rest of Its form. A cocoon of pure malaise envelops Zyrialith; it rolls and heaves, an ever-shifting miasma of pestilences. In stark juxtaposition to the withered form of the God, the maelstrom of contagion that shrouds It is ripe with life, each organism an unspoken promise of fatal virulence that yearns to touch, to tarnish, to torment, to terminate.