#vyros.

[liminalempires]

A LONESOME RIBBON OF NIGHT BIRDS WENDING AROUND THE PEAK OF RAMIEL, THE DISTANT COLD IN POOLS OF STRETCHING SHADOW, AND A SHARP, RINGING PROMISE OF DRAWN STEEL.

// 𝚅𝚈𝚁𝙾𝚂 𝙳’𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙷Í𝙼 — ( second in command of the night court + starsiren ) the pale shadow / the bastard of ramiel

Underneath the sparkling sky, did you see HENRY CAVILL being tipped by the Cauldron? No, that's just VYROS D’MARHÍM, who is the SECOND IN COMMAND from THE NIGHT COURT. I heard that on most days they're PROTECTIVE and DISCERNING but if you catch them on a dark night, they can be CRITICAL and COLD. But if you really get to know them, you'll know that they vibe with A LONESOME RIBBON OF NIGHT BIRDS WENDING AROUND THE PEAK OF RAMIEL, THE DISTANT COLD IN POOLS OF STRETCHING SHADOW, AND A SHARP, RINGING PROMISE OF DRAWN STEEL.

( basics. )

› name : vyros d’marhím. › nickname(s) : vyr. › gender : male (he/him) › orientation : demi. › date of birth : 21 dec. › age : 390. › birthplace : winter court. › occupation : second in command of the night court.

( physical & mental. )

› height : 6’7”. › weight : 250. › body type : broad, strong. › eye color : amber. › hair color : silvery white. › dominant hand : right. › scars : countless scars. › conditions : slight limp during winter. › intelligence : above average. › skills : starsiren. trained illyrian, battlemaster & strategist, a master with heavy, two-handed weapons as well as dual-wielding and shieldwork, well-versed in managing an army or a small cadre, running ops, basic skills in leatherworking, first aid, and smithing, light ice magic (rarely used) › likes : pipe tobacco, hunting, sketching, banter (when it’s good), woodworking, traveling, cold weather, strong character, training › dislikes : superfluousness, idle chatter, pageantry, hypocrisy, feeling vulnerable, idleness, flakey individuals

( backstory. )

tw: child neglect & abandonment, death mention, violence

born to the ruinous, crumbling stone halls of castle d’marhím in winter court,  you are a winged bastard that costs your mother her life upon delivery. 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 the winter court, an orphan with a borrowed name. 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 ice, not of the same bitterness that bore 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.

when there is a rogue warband goes rogue, they send you alone to subdue them. it is with spite they send you to your death, and you go anyway. you are gone for three full days. assuming you've failed, a scout to assess the situation. he comes back pale, barely gripping his sword, muttering about starlight that moves wrong. he stutters as he tells of a pale glow coiling along the ground like living things, slipping beneath armor, into mouths, down throats. whispers that the fires were obliterated one by one, not smothered but deciding to die. a small cadre ventures out, and they are met with a camp in ruin, and you at the center of it with starlight lapping at your shoulders, from under the soles of your feet. frost cracking on your skin. that is the last night they call you bastard to your face or with ill-intent.

your warband works alongside the night court armies for centuries until you become close with the high family, and you are eventually appointed to be the high lady's second. it's a post you accept with absolutely fealty. you see her as ruler worthy of your blade.

( headcanons. )

when in battle or high spirits, a slight hoarfrost forms on his skin.

wields two greatswords, one named godfeller, the other kingkiller.

[courtfallen]

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 & 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄 (3/3) // open starter.

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔶𝔯𝔦𝔞𝔫 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔯 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢, but the man wishes war would never befall those he's vowed to protect. it's a precarious thing, to live as a blade — to understand yourself only as a weapon, a tool for bloodshed. when the world becomes a complicated chess board, one that plays against itself in constant rotations, a warrior can lose sight of the truth. perhaps he was never meant to be anything more than a pawn, a sharp and deadly arm of whatever court or legion he served. the general finds himself caught somewhere between the man he was at the start of all of these happenings, and the boy he was lost in the collapsing, stonework archways of castle grau. then, he would have given anything to be as capable as he is now, but while his strength has grown, so, too, has his heart and his understanding of the world around him. it is not enough to be a great warrior. there is responsibility in his power, in his abilities. moves that should be effortless and smooth, a technique of wing and blade, are now harsh as he moves from one end of the sparring yard to the other, his wings and the air they catch off-setting the weight of the great sword he swings. there is a haste to his swings, a gravel in his yell as he throws that mighty weapon. vyros stops, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. brows knit together, and in a frightening, rageful plunge, he spears the earth with his blade. he should be used to feeling lost. it is not for a general, a warrior, to know where he's going. only to lead an army of death wherever he is bidden.

[courtfallen]

— closed starter for @stvrlcss // 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢! ( vyros & diana — a candlelit study at a very late hour )

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱, and yet his mind is a maddening gyre. echoes and fragments of thoughts strike him as he fights for sleep, chasing elusive waves of slumber away like a torch to a phantom. so, he wanders the wings of the castle's quiet quarters, seeking mother-knows-what while the rest of the world sleeps.

at the end of a long corridor, he sees a the flicker of a burning candle, and follows it with a mild spark of curiosity. whoever, at this hour, is still awake must be possessed by the same demon as him. fingers roll over the stone wall as he passes, and as he comes to the threshold, he's somewhat amused by what he sees: diana, ever the vigilant scribe, bent over tomes parchment and bathed in the light of a dozen candles.

❝ of course, it's you i find, ❞ he says, his voice softer than usual and yet strained for lack of sleep. ❝ i would scold you for keeping such unsound hours, but then who is there to scold me? ❞ he moves into the room, but only just, choosing to lean back against the doorframe. his arms weave over his chest. ❝ dare i ask what you've found? ❞

too often, they have faced threats together, but of differing shapes — vyros knows she holds resentment for him, but he cannot carry any for her.

[courtfallen]

— closed starter for @stxrfclls // 𝔞 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔠𝔯𝔶! ( vyros & desmera — amidst a riot outside the local tavern, following the loss of magic, nearly midnight )

𝔳𝔶𝔯𝔬𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔬𝔴𝔫, sweat streaming from his brow. ice does not cover his skin like armored verglas; instead, his focus results in shivers, an ice-pick headache, and a mist of condensation — his skin is cold to the touch, the air around him chilled, ringlets of his hair clump with frost, but melt almost immediately and stream down his leathers. despite his efforts, the most he can do is conjure glass-like ice that shatters at a touch. around him, ire and frustration begins to swarm, and he knows it brings bad tidings. not only have the people of the capital been trapped in a cage for days, they are now being stripped of their power, taunted by dragons hidden by heavy cloud cover, and ignored by their leaders. there will be trouble, infighting, restless and angry fae looking for someone to blame.

he has feared it since the start of this saga, and he is there to witness its unraveling — a riot, bursting forth from the town's most popular tavern.

he reaches for godfeller, the greatsword kept nestled between his illyrian wings, but then he sees the dawn court's second in command. her back is to him, but he feels relief to know someone capable is nearby, someone with a sound mind and a warrior's temperament. he pushes through the maddening crowd to her, the masses a labyrinth growing around them. an enraged fae is just a step ahead of him, raising a mallet high in the air, ready to strike her in the back of the head. vyros' reach is just enough to grab the foolish villager by the collar and throw him back to the ground, kingkiller leveled at his chin. ❝ try that again, and i'll cut every tooth out of your head with this blade. ❞ the man winces and recoils. he looks over his shoulder at the woman for whom he's crossed a sea of ire. ❝ i have a feeling if we don't stop this in its tracks, it'll spread like wildfire, and this entire city will be torn apart. any bright ideas? ❞

[courtfallen]

— closed starter for @ofcovrts // 𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔰.

𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔡𝔬𝔢𝔰𝔫'𝔱 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔞𝔯𝔪 𝔥𝔦𝔪. it enables him. it strengthens him. when he sees those great beasts, looming heavy in the sky, his heart hammers, but it doesn't splinter or fall. it moves the ichor and blood through his veins, and he is thrown into action like a machine. it had been the simple job of the royal family to protect those flooding their kingdrom from foreign courts, and yet their answer to an unknown threat has been to distract the collective attention with a festival. there are too many souls in the streets, too many children separated from their families, too many lives to be lost in this needless frivolity. the ire in him is not hot like a searing blade straight from the forge; it is cold and lifeless and slow to move, a careful glacier adrift, waiting, observant and distant. there is ice blooming in his veins as he ushers children to sheltering arms, as he scans the churning crowd for his inner circle — the high lady, the young emissary, the general ... and then he is overtaken by the burn of the cruelest flame when his amber eyes sweep over her. the pain floods him, drowns him, old wounds re-opened with a cruel blade, and for a moment, he is breathless. the discomfort he's felt observing the strange happenings in gaea does not compare to what he feels at the sight of her. this is real fear, and the world seems to bend around her as he draws nearer. she is unchanged — honeyed skin, dark eyes that drew him in like a siren to deep water. he stands, the cynosure of madness as the masses run for cover, and wonders how he might survive this vivid hallucination. for how could he withstand it if she were truly here? now and arm's length away? would she dismiss him as easily now as she had then?

❝ leandra? ❞ her name is somehow venom and syrup, heavy-laden on his tongue, a challenge to his reality.

[courtfallen]

𝐒𝐊𝐘𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 / (3/3) — closed

the smoke peels back slowly to reveal a sea of aching blue & the rumble in the earth fades to stillness. the commander's yellow eyes are trustworthy enough that he doesn't question what he's seen, and he can't tune out the whispery conversations bubbling up around him — great, winged beasts of air and fire. fire. the burn scar that starts beneath his jaw and trails down beneath his worn pelts and leathers comes alive at the thought. there is still fear in him, a thing he's scraped out of the marrow with diligence for years. somehow it persists: an angry, determined & searing sensation that begs him to take action. his wings twitch, daring him to yet again chase the great shadows that tormented them — his pursuit had been to no avail. finally, he musters the constitution to look away from the yawning sky but he is highly attuned to it, waiting, wings & limbs ready for the moment he will need to shoot up into the air.

his eyes level on the one lingering nearest him, the one who's watched the sky finally clear, felt the ground go still. ❝ this isn't the last we'll see of them. whatever game they are playing, it's an intentional show of power & they've made their presence known for a reason. ❞ what he asks next is pensive, soft, and without expectation of an answer. he dares not look skyward once more. ❝ what could a force so powerful want from us? ❞

[courtfallen]

𝔳𝔶𝔯𝔬𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔲 // intro.

‘ henry cavill, cismale, he/him, 38 / 380 , high fae + illyrian ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems VYROS GRAU has been teleported to the dusk court, the GENERAL OF THE ARMIES from THE WINTER COURT is said to be ARDENT and is said to describe themselves with A RIBBON OF NIGHT BIRDS WINDING AROUND A GREAT, COLD MOUNTAIN, HOARFROST CRACKING UNDERFOOT, THE UNDYING GLOW OF EMBERS IN THE GREAT DAY, AND VELVET BLACK WINGS STARK AGAINST THE SNOW and with all of this in mind their FIREBRAND 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: vyros rhaedyn grau ɴɪᴄᴋɴᴀᴍᴇ(ꜱ): "the white raven" — for his coloring ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ: vyros (masc) meaning "a council of wolves" / rhaedyn (masc): a pelt of white fur or feathers / grau: the vestige of a mountain range at twilight ᴀɢᴇ: 38 / 380 ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ: dec 21 (sagittarius sun, aries moon, capricorn rising) ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ: castle grau, winter court, prythian ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴇꜱ: high fae / illyrian + daemati ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ: cismale ᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴꜱ: he/him ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: heterosexual ( for now ) ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: heteroromantic ( for now ) ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ: unattached. ᴏᴄᴄᴜᴘᴀᴛɪᴏɴ:  general of the armies of the winter court ᴇᴅᴜᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: trained illyrian, battlemaster & strategist, a master with heavy, two-handed weapons as well as dual-wielding and shieldwork, well-versed in managing an estate & an army, basic skills in leatherworking, first aid, and smithing, expert astral traveler & icewielder, adept at winnowing ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄᴄᴇɴᴛ: a deep, rumbling voice that's quite gravelly / capable of a booming roar that can gain the attention of an army when necessary

physical appearance, etc.

ꜰᴀᴄᴇᴄʟᴀɪᴍ: henry cavill (as the witcher) ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: white, worn long, sometimes plaited, rarely perfectly kempt; there is often stray hairs loose and flyaways ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ: golden amber ᴇʏᴇꜱɪɢʜᴛ: hawkeyed ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛ: 6'5" ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ: 228lbs ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ: broad & muscled ᴛᴀᴛᴛᴏᴏꜱ: illyrian tattoos across chest, back and arms ᴘɪᴇʀᴄɪɴɢꜱ: earlobes & cuffs ᴄʟᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: utilitarian leathers, linen tunics, often embellished with or lined with pelts ᴅɪꜱᴛɪɴɢᴜɪꜱʜɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀɪꜱᴛɪᴄꜱ: burn scar that starts under his left jaw and descends down his neck to his back and stops around the top of his left glute ꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ: leather & amber musk

personality.

ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛꜱ: ardent, loyal, strategic, observant, generous, protective, self-sacrificing, biting wit, honest ɴᴇɢᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛꜱ: critical, brooding, stoic, revolutionary thinker, unrelenting, tireless, stonewaller, can be rigid and emotionally unavailable ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ: pipe tobacco, hunting, sketching, banter (when it's good), woodworking, traveling, cold weather, strong character, dreaming/astral projection ᴅɪꜱʟɪᴋᴇꜱ: superfluousness, idle chatter, pageantry, hypocrisy, feeling vulnerable, idleness, flakey individuals ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ: the fall of his court, harm coming to those he's vowed to protect & those he cares for, fire ᴍᴏʀᴀʟ ᴀʟɪɢɴᴍᴇɴᴛ: generally good with flares of chaotic neutral ᴇʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ: ice ʙᴇᴠᴇʀᴀɢᴇ: enjoys ales and black teas ꜰᴏᴏᴅ: favors nuts & berries & dried/salted meats

head canons and/or backstory. (tw: child abuse/neglect, death, infant death)

born to the ruinous, crumbling stone halls of castle grau, you are hated by your father and adored by your waning mother. a child experiencing such extremes, such polarization within those frozen halls is bound to age swiftly, to be strategic of step and speech. when your mother dies during childbirth, you are but twelve, and sit at her deathly side, distantly holding your infant, blood-smattered sister for hours. when you are found by a handmaid and shaken out of shock, you look down to find you sister is stillborn.

this event changes you in ways you may never truly comprehend. once you had been hopeful about the future, about your escape from the wintry wasteland at the northmost point of prythian, forgotten and desolate as a tomb. now, you know that hope is for fools, and that you must become as harsh as the craggy, black mountains that surround your home. you must allow the ice in your veins to become your armor.

in a drunken rage following the death of his wife and infant daughter, your father sets fire to your home. the fire that overcame you while you slept will scar you for the rest of your life. thankfully, it was that fire that claimed your father's life, as well.

you are on your own for several years, learning what trades you can. at 14, you are accepted as a blacksmith's apprentice, and you take to the work with a fierceness of devotion that's surprising. it is something to hold onto, something to learn, something to lose yourself in, and it feeds you, and you welcome the work as if it were a long-lost, nurturing mother.

you escape from your reality every night, roving the astral plains with the adventurous spark that died in your waking life. here, you are untouchable, unreachable. here, you drift high above, away from the sharpness of your life, away from the cruelty that lies waiting for you.

at the age you are permitted to join the winter court's army, some of this darkness in you draws back. you find your worth as an instrument of violence; it seems you are powerfully strong for your age, that you understand your body to be a weapon in ways that cannot be taught. war goes hand-in-hand with your brutal world, for you have been growing, a tender green thing in a cold world for so long. this path takes you away from home, where you eventually train as an illyrian and sprout black wings. you are who you were meant to be.

when you learn of the winter court's tragedy — the death of the high lord and his heirs — you answer the call to return, pledging your life to your new high lady as a general of her armies, eager to see her through this transitional period, and eager to prove yourself and find your place in the world.