Territorial local artist and invisible spider.
Too many limbs stretched through a skin of impossibly reflective chrome. Humanoid enough for the addition of aftermarket waldos to be startling.
There’s clearly not enough of the glossy, chrome flesh to cover the underlying structure, and fingers of unknowable, rigid machine stick through the pliant-looking skin at the end of most extremities. These jutting thorns of irregular metal grow purposefully sharp where fingers and toes would be.
Somewhere, deep in the heart of things, a sticky, fluorescent throb refracts through the skin in ugly rainbows.
The face is featureless but for a baleful, red glow on a bulge where a human mouth would be. It opens like a camera shutter to reveal a crude, glowing approximation of a medical laser.
TL;DR: totally gross liquid-metal spider with a bright, beating core
Canticle’s one-and-only cover is a young man built of a thousand poorly conceived tattoos. Some look old and faded, some are blue with wear — these are names and symbols that mean nothing to anyone. They cover him like a disfigurement, sparing only his face. Even then, there are few marks of ink near an eye, his lips. Like shrapnel from the same colorful explosion that marked the rest of him.
Canticle dresses in thrift store chic, with patches and duct tape mends. Band names, slogans and denim. Leather, studs and paint. His fingers stretch the gamut of spraycan blood, his peroxide-blond hair speckled in the same.
This cover is an easy-going thing on the surface, with a thousand nervous ticks waiting to spring free at the slightest anxiety. It’s when those ticks don’t spring that Canticle’s true nature shows itself.