— closed for members of the night court inner circle ( not a group thread ) // 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔫𝔰 𝔞𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔡𝔲𝔰k!
— scene: dusk court / night courts' common room / nearing midnight
k𝔞𝔟𝔦𝔯'𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 is ill-timed and troubling. whispers had found ihsahn, warning that his bid for power now extends outward, spidery-black, over all of prythian. it rings as a subtle threat to every court's independence, and it will lead to crumbling and shifting alliances, closed ranks, figures moving in the shadows, suspicions and betrayals. it's a risk night court cannot abide, not with so much to balance. the bastard high lord's mind is churning, turning over stones for crucial information, hints he might have missed in conversations with other high rulers in the grand hall. his nerves are unsettled, so much so that he has not returned to his quarters to check on his wife and son, instead taking to pacing before a great hearth and a balcony overlooking the foreign court. trading the cold, wintry night for the scald of raging flame.
a half-empty bottle of whiskey sits on the coffee table, no doubt sundered in an attempt to soothe his erratic thoughts. next to it is a hand-drawn map of prythian, one he's rendered from memory on blank vellum. there are schematics, scribbled notes, circles and arrows eluding to an unspoken plan. there's nothing that can quiet this rage, this feeling of helplessness as it creeps beneath his skin. what madness has brought his family, his inner circle, citizens of his court to this strange place, and to what purpose does it restore a sickly, pious self-proclaimed ruler of prythrian to full power?
he leans over the hearth, dark features alit by the flame therein, and his thoughts linger on the illyrians, the hewn city, the moonstone palace ...velaris. all the places tied to his heartstrings. when he hears footsteps approaching, he pushes away from the fire and draws back the rippling shadows that consume him — as much as he can manage in his current mood.
❝ i'm starting to lose patience, ❞ he begins, his voice low, his manner showing he's distracted from what's presently in front of him, his mind fixated on the happenings outside of this room. ❝ if we have a chance of gaining any footing in this maelstrom of bullshit we're swimming in, it's going to require we do more than sit around and wait for the next storm to blow over. i will not lose grasp of the night court, because we're too distracted by the labyrinth we're in. ❞ a pause as he looks up to find their eyes, his own haunted and shadowed from sleeplessness and worry. ❝ we need a plan. ❞
‘ şükrü özyıldız, cismale, he/him, 36 / 360 , high fae + illyrian ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems IHSAHN EREBOS DRAVEN has been teleported to the dusk court, the HIGH LORD from THE NIGHT COURT is said to be DISARMING and is said to describe themselves with A ONCE DISTANT WORLD OF MOONSTONE BLOOMING AND TAKING SHAPE, THE ECHO OF REDEMPTION A FARAWAY CALL, MOUNTAIN CRAGS AND FROSTBITE TRADED FOR THE WARMTH OF A NEW BEGINNING, A BASTARD’S WINGS SHADOWING AN ABANDONED THRONE and with all of this in mind their VENGEFUL nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time. ; written by aerin!
general details;
ꜰᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: ihsahn erebos draven
ɴɪᴄᴋɴᴀᴍᴇ(ꜱ): sahn, among close friends. ihsa, for only a select few.
ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ: ihsahn (masc) meaning ‘carrier of the light/gift’ / erebos meaning 'darkness'
ᴀɢᴇ: 36 / 360
ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ: november 12th (scorpio sun, aries moon, sagittarius rising )
ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ: illyrian war camp.
ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴇꜱ: high fae / illyrian
ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ: cismale
ᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴꜱ: he/him
ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: heterosexual
ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: heteroromantic
ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ: married to high lady seraphina draven nee galathenea, the evenstar
ᴏᴄᴄᴜᴘᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: high lord of night court
ᴇᴅᴜᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ihsahn's education as a prince of the night court was denied to him. instead, he was sent to the illyrian war camps at a young age. what education he received was of violence, survival, brutality, and bitterness. unexpectedly, over time, he also learned brotherhood and how to lead. upon returning to the night court, he has requested private tutelage from his inner circle's scholar. the basics were difficult for him on the outset, but he has learned in spite of his disadvantages and shows a knack for retaining detail and discovered a love of reading and writing.
physical appearance, etc.;
ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄᴄᴇɴᴛ: ihsahn's voice is low and velvety when speaking in normal tones. he can sound harsh and demanding, if needed, but it's a rare thing to hear.
ꜰᴀᴄᴇᴄʟᴀɪᴍ: şükrü özyıldız
ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: dark hair with a slight wave that grows just below his earlobes. it's often worn slicked-back or tied in a knot atop his head.
ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ: rich, mahogany brown in the light, almost black.
ᴇʏᴇꜱɪɢʜᴛ: keen.
ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛ: 6'2"
ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ: 205lbs.
ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ: lean and muscled; the body of an illyrian warrior who trains daily.
ᴛᴀᴛᴛᴏᴏꜱ: illyrian tattoos that swirl across his abdomen, back, shoulders, and up to his neck.
ᴄʟᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: recently, he has begun to wear clothing fit for a high lord, though there are always additions that call back to his illyrian roots — belts and leathers, clothing that does not limit movement or leave him to exposed.
ᴅɪꜱᴛɪɴɢᴜɪꜱʜɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀɪꜱᴛɪᴄꜱ: a scar that starts above is left eyebrow and travels down his left cheek. a scar beneath his left ribs.
ꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ: vetiver, leather, and spice.
personality;
ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛꜱ: disarming, curious, generous, devoted, dauntless, honest, witty, valiant, vigilant, tireless, steadfast, loyal
ɴᴇɢᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛꜱ: vengeful, stubborn, prone to detachment, impatient, overprotective, tempestuous, sharp-tongued, critical, sometimes reticent, unforgiving
ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ: games of strategy and skill, honesty, training, sparring, learning new things, reading & writing, appreciates art and elegance (something previously foreign to him), building things (carpentry & stonemasonry)
ᴅɪꜱʟɪᴋᴇꜱ: court politics & intrigue, dishonesty, deception, judgmental people, ego, being unable to protect his family from unpredictable threats, false manners, irrelevant traditions and rules, feeling idle or underutilized
ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ: harm coming to his wife & child, losing himself while adapting to his new world, being betrayed
ᴍᴏʀᴀʟ ᴀʟɪɢɴᴍᴇɴᴛ: neutral good
ᴇʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ: air & fire
ʙᴇᴠᴇʀᴀɢᴇ: spiced rum & black teas with citrus
ꜰᴏᴏᴅ: sweet-tooth, loves baked confections - cookies, cakes, pies, and spicy savory foods
headcanons and/or backstory; — tw: —
— you are a bastard. it is the mantle you wear from infancy, and it is a heavy weave of switches and barbs, lined with resentment, laden with lost hope. to the wolves of the illyrian mountains, you are cast from moonstone and enchantment, and to them, you are not just a bastard, but a noble one. with rich vermillion magic thrumming in your bones: you are composed of shadows and storms, not of the wintry bitterness that borne them. for that, you are worthy of derision, belittlement, hatred, and scorn from your winged brothers. they will never make it easy for you, but for that, you will one day thank them.
— centuries spent in the treacherous mountains teach you resolve, self-resilience, and strength, and that bitter place in your belly where the pain of abandonment pulses pushes you to exceed every expectation, to strike down every threat, to become a mix of iron and steel. when your burgeoning magic begins to grow, you become a force among the aerial army that casts shadows and humbles your rivals. your lone win of the bloodrite cements your claim as one of the best their rank have seen, and it is a slow, begrudging thing, but eventually, they accept you and name you one of them.
— your magic sets you apart from those around you in the warcamps that are your home, and it does so once more when you are named high lord of night court. it is a title you don't want, a burden you refuse to carry, and you rail against it with everything you have. never will you serve the court that abandoned you, never will you marry a stranger, never will you be beholden to the expectations of a people who would disown you from such lofty heights.
— it is slow, the accepting of one's own fate. the understanding of your true nature. like most things, it comes to you in a dream — not a vision, but a flourish of shadows unraveling to reveal a corrupted world, a gutted night court with an empty throne. perhaps you've always known that you would wind up here, surrounded by a foreign world once denied outright. but the warcamps are not enough. they don't offer more. and prythian and the continents that spread beyond call you. your birthrite calls you, just as ramiel's distant peak once had.
— you are defiant, at first, determined not to fit in this small, glittering city under the stars. protected, warm, safe, nourished. the woman you are to wed cannot stand the nearness of you, and the expectations are beyond your abilities. when the darkness of self-doubt sweeps in, it holds you for a decade or more. you are a savage thing who doesn't belong, a warrior at the helm of a glorious, cultured court, renowned for its charm and elegance. then it happens, something you don't expect: you begin to care for another, and by extension, for your court, for the fae that spend their lives in it. for the little valley that holds velaris tight.
— just as before, no one wants you to succeed. and just as before, you will answer the call within you despite them. you are the bastard high lord of the night court, and the crown is yours by rights. beyond that, you are a husband and a father, a loyal friend, a capable warrior, and a strong strategist. you are a leader and an advocate for the night court, and you are more than the brands given you by those that failed you.
