YOUR HEART IS DEAD, BROTHERMAN.

❝

no. this is somewhere to be. this is all you have, but it's still something. streets and sodium lights. the sky, the world. you're still alive.

❞

THE PAST IS MADE

OF STATIC IMAGES, DISTORTED MEMORIES, DEMENTED NOSTALGIA.

there is a grief in you. vast and wide—wider than the skies that hold the ship you once called home, and further from your reach than even the dawn between your fingertips. ( far, far east—chasing the passage of the rising sun—is a ship named the dreadwyrm. she sings in perfect fifths, aether & faith streaming from her towering figurehead,AND THEN? WHAT THEN, BROTHER? )you do not recognize the man who looks at you in the mirror. he moves as you move—smiles as you smile, blinks as you blink—but above all, he is a stranger-thing that looks back at you with your own eyes. but there is not much that you do recognize,as if you'd woken from some long, forgotten dream. as if the world had moved on without you, long ago. ( that's okay. that you are here is solace enough—and despite everything, you must have faith that you remain the same. )

all you remember are slivers and fragments—flickers and snatches of songs and memories buried so deeply into your marrow that they've become a part of you.( your story had ended years ago with a soft exhale & a prayer: throat-garroted & rot-slickened & slavering at your feet. this is not how prayers should sound, but you have never known any other way. so you reinvent yourself. so you drag your story forward, odysseus on his ship—a dead thing that doesn’t quite know that it is dead. you should know better.... you do know better. beneath it all, you are terrified: terrified to forget and terrified to remember. )still, the world goes on. still, your heart keeps beating—and for as long as your lungs draw breath, you will continue to love this world ( the skies above and the seas below and the sun and the wind through your fingertips ). for as long as you can. for as long as you must.

OOC

leo / 21+ / she&her / cest
discord upon request.

muse and mun are both 21+ ! would prefer to write with those who are also 21+; due to the nature of this character & the themes that this character plays with, please be 18+ at minimum.

general writing and roleplay etiquette apply. ooc does not equal ic ! the opinions and actions of my character do not correlate with my own views.

you have my permission to harm my character however you'd like, so long as there is no godmodding or metagaming involved ! in fact, acts of violence are welcome.

feel free to ask for my code ! issk'ir is very heavily glamoured as a rava viera, seen as he would be without being synced. what he looks like synced with the code is what he would look like underneath the glamour.

always a yes to pre-established relationships, long-form roleplay, and questlines + campaigns ! always feel free to hit me up if you see me hanging around somewhere !

i'm quite fond of continuous & plotted roleplay—if you're interested in a particular hook or have an interest in making a connection with issk'ir or the tributary, please let me know !

about

FAITH

ㅤnameㅤ issk'ir delacroix.
ㅤageㅤ ???
ㅤpronounsㅤ he&him.
race mutt; rava + elezen
ㅤoriginㅤ ishgard.
affiliation the tributary.
occupation ( knight ) bounty hunter.
last seen ul'dah.
sexuality pansexual + greyromantic

― heart

caught in slivers; everlasting grief & an ardent belief in the way godrays settle against the riverbed. a snapshot of prayer. duty above all; warm hands, warmer heart. slender fingers knotting up a tangled web of memories; red lips, redder thoughts. brilliant & dazzling—all to fill up the void where his memories should be. to chase away the dark.wants to be ( good. the light of the sun through scattered clouds. the summer breeze streaming through windswept hair. oriole-song and gnarled oak beneath fingertips— ) something more than just a shadow. something more than just flickers and snapshots of words and phrases and ( feelings. )

― eyes

heavily-lashed eyes; eyes a soft, summer blue; eyes the colour of the skies and the sea and the horizon that kisses both. slit-pupiled and thinning into slivers; an uncanny touch to the way they track the flight of birds—of shadows across the grass—of elk through the trees. long, dark lashes that soften a playful glance and slow, feline blinks.attentive & bright, despite a lidded gaze; wants to know you, in your entirety.

― mirror

dyed dark hair that curls against his forehead—touches at cheek and falls into the blue of his eyes. darker lashes, set beneath relaxed brows and above a slanted half-smile. a map of constellations scattered across his skin—there, the north star. there, the spire. loose-limbed and relaxed; broad shoulders and fairly muscular, the gentle slope of his spine meeting the taper of his waist.digitigrade legs, the only mark of the love between his ishgardian father and his golmorran mother—or so they say. once a source of shame to his ishgardian kin; glamoured, mostly.

― mouth

a soft cupid's bow set above a mouth that holds ( always ) a crooked grin. often curled at the corners, as if fighting a smile; a lopsided dimple touching at his left cheek. underneath the swell of his lower lip, a beauty mark; he says it's where past lovers have liked kissing him the most.too-sharp canines flashing whenever he speaks; words drawled in a strange accent—soft consonants and long, sparkling vowels. lies about his past just as easily as he breathes—but all in good fun, mind you. speaks in a low, amused tenor.

― skin

tanned and marred only by the glittering constellations that wink in and out of existence with the waning light of the sun. this, too, is something that was taken from him—he remembers it like a bad habit, like someone else puppeteering his body: the way his fingertips hesitate when traversing the expanse of skin, as if waiting for the edges of raised ridges and scars.unfamiliar to himself—and too-familiar, all the same.

― hands

hands were made to hold other hands; his fit the entirety of his heart. often cradling an apple—often running a coin across his knuckles. warm and firm, with callused fingertips that catch against the fabric of his gloves.his laid-back demeanour only belies the way he has to constantly move—to constantly touch, reassuring himself that yes, he is here. he is alive. this is not a dream.( sometimes, he wakes up in the dark and forgets what it's like to breathe. )

DEEPER

issk'ir is a bastard cousin of the delacroix crown, a family that has etched its history in the dark and darker. the delacroix family's one true belief is that might makes right—history chooses its victors and martyrs and the one who stands tall must hold a conquerer's mania in their blood.so every third decade, the family retreats from polite society and locks prospective heirs in a large, ancient manor—where they devour each other ( destroy each other ) in an act that defies grace, very much like the poisonous gu that ancient yanxian families rear.its proxy heir granted him asylum when issk'ir was found during the height of the dragonsong war, only asking for one single favour to call from him in the future. though issk'ir was wary, he could only agree.

he usually remains weakly glamoured as a true rava, out of some sense of love for his late mother—not that he has any remembrance or resentment for either parent, but simply that his father's family is not one he would like to have any overt ties to.it's more out of habit than anything, and so it is incredibly easy to break: if asked about it, issk'ir will only spin different stories. he will not, in any case, bring prospective friends back to meet his family.and though he hails from ishgard, he's not terribly fond of the cold—his body temperature remains quite high, but he dislikes bulky, restrictive clothing, preferring instead to dress for warmer climes such as in ul'dah.

SELF

miscellaneous info.

thrillseeker; constantly looking for the next fun thing. has jumped out of an airship, just for a dare. puts the 'fun' in dysfunction—adrenaline junkie, if only to outshine the eventual dark of his dreams. ( see, if he fills his waking hours with sights and sounds and tastes—if he keeps running forward, then the world can't leave him behind. )

easy to befriend & just as easy to leave; the world is vast and endless. maybe you'll meet again—and maybe you won't, for a long, long time. no matter how long it's been, though, it'll always seem like it was just yesterday.

bad sense of personal space; the kinda' guy to sling an arm around your shoulder or kiss your cheek ( no homo, bromeo. obvs. ) without batting an eye. especially if you're a stranger. half of his communication is done through touch or facial expressions; the other half is done through a mix of weird metaphors and worse decisions.

tiny little scars on the tips of his fingers from where he'd practiced too heavily with knife tricks; does prefer a gun or an axe—sometimes both, at the same time.

good drinker and a better conversationalist; loves people and company—a proud advocate of 'the more the merrier', and will take it upon himself to seek out the busiest bars and streets. has horrible luck, unfortunately, despite a penchant for lighthearted bets.

constantly on the move; sick with a wanderlust that hollows him through. either fiddling with something in his mouth or something in his hands if he can't get any stimulation from the situation. makes bad decisions ( unless there's actual stakes—then, surprisingly, he has more of a level head ).

bonds

bonds

those who are friends,

these guys are all played by me ! saint and noël have an in-game presence; the other two are npcs.

and those who are foes.

if you're interested in interacting with any one of them, please let me know ! i'm more than happy to play them in most scenarios.

noël delacroix

heir

the favourite to the delacroix crown; tied issk'ir to his side through the means of a favour granted and a favour received. waiting for the next piece to fall.

carrd

v'yseria

blooded knight

casual companion during the dragonsong war; the two of them worked as retainers to the heir afterwards. they make each other worse.

rhine riesling

patron

of the leitner merchant empire, friendly enough to be buddies & knowledgeable enough to remain that way. to him, issk'ir is an investment.

saint

priest

speaks of faith like it's a drowning, like river-swell and dawn-dew; one of the first to find issk'ir, during the war. they are of the same kind, now.

carrd

ㅤnameㅤ noël delacroix.
ㅤageㅤ 24.
ㅤpronounsㅤ he&him.
affiliation the delacroix family.
occupation proxy heir.

obsessive and possessive and terribly, horribly monstrous—like the rest of his ilk. he has to be, to survive. his own hands are lily-white and bloodless; this, he knows all too well, does not grant him innocence. ( terribly, horribly lonely—he knows better. )but he was made the heir, and he will do what he must to end this nightmare—to cleave the cycle in twain.

golden, sunlit hair & a soft, tender smile. too-blue eyes underneath heavy lashes—prone to reddening corners & fleeting tears. slightly wavy locks that gently curl around his ears & forehead—a beauty mark underneath the corner of his rose-red mouth.a crimson tattoo ( in the shape of an abstract sun ) at the nape of his neck, with strange symbols etched into his skin. lean & lithe; slender shoulders & pale throat.faithful & faithless; devout in his belief that all things stem from love, medicine and malady both. genuine, despite everything—has the power to remain so.( almost gentle. almost happy. almost, almost, almost. )

noël

v'yseria

ㅤnameㅤ v'yseria.
ㅤageㅤ 37.
ㅤpronounsㅤ they&it.
affiliation the delacroix family.
occupation red right hand.

conscripted by the garleans before being found, half-dead, by the delacroix family. almost killed when they lashed out at their rescuers after a moment of good-humored stillness, monster-teeth sunk deep into soft throat.despite appearances, noë has not tamed them—but they are useful to each other, and noë has promised them a wish.

jackal in the guise of a gentleman; attentive and obedient, with upturned lips and a quirked brow. the pupilless red of their eyes speaks of the way they are sick with a madness, rabid amusement made manifest in the slow curl of their grin.dove-white hair often tied back, soft bangs framing sharp scales and a red mouth. teeth are jagged; meant for tearing flesh and skin. taller than most; strong shoulders and spine-like tail.often clad in dark colors, a foil to the white-silver colours of the heir. unpredictable; gives no hints before going for the throat. oftentimes holds a sudden dangerous stillness.prone to making bad decisions and to being enabled.

ㅤnameㅤ rhine riesling.
ㅤageㅤ 32.
ㅤpronounsㅤ he&him.
affiliation rasche textiles company.
occupation socialite.

rhine riesling was born as august theodore leitner to an empire—an entire dynasty—built atop the blood and bones of the war trade. august leitner is their ambitious heir,but rhine riesling is the warm and affable golden boy of the rasche textiles company, based in ul’dah with trade routes all across the known map.

ash-blonde bangs that perfectly frame bright eyes and a dimpled, devilish grin. angled features and a sharp, strong jawline, pointed canines peeking out whenever he flashes a smile.the man could appear on the cover of a magazine—has appeared on quite a few covers, in fact—with artfully ruffled hair and a wicked sense of humour. the papers fondly call him an incorrigible playboy, but he's the darling of the camera and it shows in the sound of his laugh—warm and inviting.incredibly fluffy ears and a fluffier tail—short and prone to wagging wildly whenever he's talking. often holding eye contact and with his eyes crinkled into a smile. fond and familiar, prone to using endearments.

riesling

history

timeline	story
REDACTED	unknown. ( flickers of a tall, endless spire that juts up against the sky; a ship that screams against the wind; endless blue and endless sun; the warmth of a smile & of hands outstretched. )
REDACTED	unknown. ( a dark without an end; snippets of broken promises; metal-tang taste of blood in throat; something has gone terribly, horribly wrong. )
REDACTED	unknown. ( it hurts to recall. )
PAST	he surfaces near ishgard with a torn note clenched in his fist. he finds his father's family—or they find him first. he's a means to an end, but so are they. in the meantime, the tributary calls to him―faith & faith & faith burning a candle in the dark.
PRESENT	there is an ardent joy in hunting monsters and men, in exploring the vastness of the realm. he finds himself becoming a bounty hunter, if only by chance.

― I.

he tells himself that he does not want to remember—that there must be a reason he cannot remember, and that this sole remaining life of his must be lived for himself. he must be selfish. he must be greedy—or else, what was it all for?and yet, he finds himself drawn to trouble—to places and people, lingering for longer than he really should. he finds himself constantly with more things to lose,but he's already lost everything, once. what's a second time? so he leaves ishgard; so he looks up towards the sky and wants like a knife stuck in his ribs—like an ache without meaning.but the sun is bright and the stars are brighter. so what if he can't remember? the only important thing, now, is to chase the wind down—to race the setting sun all the way to the fault-line of the horizon.

he was found by the delacroix family ( theirs are a faithless horror, and though they play at noblesse oblige, issk'ir knows better than most of the consequences to their monstrous habits ) as one of its long-lost kin during the dragonsong war.all he knows is what he needs to know, not quite trusting the delacroix crown to have his best interests in mind, nor naive enough to assume that they would ever tell him a singular truth.

but before even the cold winds of ishgard swept him into war, he remembers a river—a tributary and a vast, endless ocean that touched against the shore. he remembers a hand pressed against bleeding wounds,and a godstouched truth sung into his marrow.before he is a delacroix, he is a believer. ( to be alive is a miracle—and after this, well. how can he not believe? )

years pass, and he is knighted—with the cold kiss of the blade to his shoulder, belief-as-duty settling into his heart. the war ends, and issk'ir follows the tributary's teachings along the river; the war ends,and issk'ir allows the world to find him, his faith & his duty smeared across his soul like the stars scattered across his skin.to find & be found—this is the greatest blessing of them all.

HOOKS

if you're looking for a mark,

and even if you don't have the coin, you need only ask. so long as it's for you, truly—so long as it's an exciting time, he'll be more than happy to assist.

if you're in need of a listening ear,

or even just a drink and a story, find him in any tavern across the source; he'll offer you a grin and a nod and a bottle to drink down.

if you're in need of an adventure,

find him exploring strange crypts and hidden secrets; find him trespassing holy ground and looking for saints. he'll most likely ask you to join him—pretty please? it'll be fun.

if you've any rumours or leads,

or if you're in need of coin, issk'ir will pay a pretty penny for any hint of excitement; bonus points if it's a fair trek away.

if you're familiar with the sacred

and the profane, the name of his faith might ring a bell: the tributary, a splinter-faith that worships the duality of Light and Shadow. or maybe, even, you'd name him a heretic to the twelve.

if you've a library,

or any collection of books or knowledge, do let him know: he's sorely lacking in common sense knowledge, only cruising by solely through virtue of his skills in making bluffs.

if you know ishgardian nobility,

the delacroix family might be familiar to you—either in a positive or negative sense. in older times, the delacroix family dealt in war—in weapons and in fighters. now, they have transitioned to philanthropy; despite this, they still have ties to the underground.

if you're a knight,

you and issk'ir might find something in common—shared memories, perhaps, or a friendship found during the war.

the tributary

a splinter-faith that worships the lifestream and the great cycle, named thus for the tributaries that spring from the one river.

ㅤ001.ㅤ people should be kinder than the gods that eat them. pain is the oldest form of remembrance & she is sick with the way her fingertips trace across each shimmering edge of the prayer-marks that are etched into her skin. sick with the way her teeth throb in her gums,

ㅤ002.ㅤ thrice-hallowed, hollowed by the very same god that unspooled her marrow & spoke its faith into her veins

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