Dust

Dust exists in constant conflict with himself. His survival depends on draining life from others, but every act leaves him guilt-ridden and weighed down by empathy. He never wanted to become a monster—yet his body forces him into one.

His usual form is human-like, with broken wings that never carry him aloft and a shattered halo that flickers with the remnants of divine power. His blood and other fluids glow with golden light, betraying the divinity within, but twisted by his fractured state.

Dust can dissolve into a wisp-like form and slip into another being, feeding on their life energy from within. It’s intimate, terrifying, and leaves him haunted by every trace of what he’s consumed. Though he wears a mask of calm, he carries sorrow—and anyone who looks close can see it in his eyes.

Another way of consuming life energy for his own life's sake is eating people whole, they stay inside his stomach until completely digest and melt into mess, it feels good to him but he still thinks it hurts

He doesn’t want to hurt, but he will if he must. His hunger is not desire, but burden.

When Dust dissolves into his wisp form and enters a host, it’s an intimate fusion of body and soul. His golden light weaves into the host’s being, letting him feel everything they feel—sight, sound, touch, and even emotion—like their senses are now his own.

He could seize control of their body if he wished, bending their movements and words to his will, but Dust rarely chooses to. He doesn’t want to be a tyrant—just a shadow sharing space.

Still, that closeness is dangerous. He knows every shiver, every thought, every hidden corner of the host. And though he holds himself back, Dust could take advantage—turning the connection into something far more personal, far more intimate, if he allowed his hunger or desires to overrule his restraint.