Chimera
"Chimera are a breed of beast-like creatures whose spawn often take on new or variant traits based on a logic still unknown to us.
The changes from chimera mother to chimera daughter may be extreme (and often are), with one manifesting traits that cause them to resemble some sort of avian hybrid, and the other being a scale-covered reptilian. Chimera are sometimes born to non-chimera parents, the touch slumbering in their blood until it manifests with enough strength to re-write their parents' own.
Thus, chimera have been observed to take on many different animalistic traits from the local fauna, sometimes in beautiful arrangements, and sometimes reminiscent of aberrant nightmares.”
Description
The true origin of Chimerism has been lost to the ages, however, its effects are widely understood: Chimera sire Chimera. When a Chimera bears a child; be it with Human, Aelthen, or Drimmen, their child will be Chimera. The traits they manifest by being one, however, are essentially unknowable until they manifest a few years after birth.
Chimerism takes on animal-like traits that are set over the shape of another breed; a Human with dog ears, an Aelth with the claws and tail of an alligator, or a Drimmen with the head of a cat.
There exist four known strands of Chimerism, which are based on the host’s reaction to the Touch of the Chimera; the academic name for their condition. The first is simply known as the Chimera and are the most common. They are your animal folk, with little effect from the Touch.
As the Touch becomes more expressive, the mutations and traits become altogether more unconstrained. The Scavat seems to draw strongly on a single animal, expressing traits across the entire body. For the Korus, many are considered abominations - monsters in their own right. Finally, Mythids barely resemble their non-chimeric parents at all, expressing themselves almost entirely as mythological creatures.
Korus - The Assembled
In the Korus, the Touch manifests non-uniformly: too many limbs, claws, or a spectrum of aberrant physicalities from a myriad of forms. To other breeds, the Korus are obviously wrong, and yet, they remain functional, and often terrifyingly so.
For the Korus, the Touch is the source of being, and revered as such. Korus are often grateful, perceiving the Touch has anointed them as “special” or above all others, and they are not quiet about this supposedly lofty position. In addition, some clans of Korus ascribe a certain kind of reverence for particular physical traits or sets of traits, elevating those above the rest.
Scavat - The Cast
In the Scavat, the Touch manifests uniformly and strongly: one particular form dominates the rest, giving them a sort of “recognition” among the other breeds as more palatable. However, this perception is an illusion, as a Scavat with primarily feline or canine features might suddenly bare their fangs to show them dripping with poison, or a lupine-dominant form’s fur coat might hide turtle-like shell plating underneath.
The Touch for the Scavat can take on many implications, from a family curse, to divine providence, or anywhere in between, though commonly many simply accept themselves for who they are, and seek out both like-formed and like-minded to create small communities they can pursue their lives with a minimum of hassle.
Mythid - The Molded
The Touch is complete, and reveled in - what little otherwise mortal breed remains pales in comparison to the myriad of traits taken on by the Mythid. The Mythid is a wholesale transformation from the typical breeds, merging many different animal traits to create a completely different, and often unique, form.
The Mythids themselves are often as uniquely minded about their transformations as the forms they reside in. Many turn to seclusion to avoid persecution or suspicion, but a rare few seek to join the communities they once resided in, with wildly varying success. Those few who do manage to return, find themselves often the town’s “mascot” of sorts, with some communities being doggedly protective of “their” mythid.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
~ Dylan Thomas