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deepcaller · only surviving member of the thayn family (official) · rebel

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timezone: gmt+1

ooc is ooc. ic is ic. I'm not my character and things said in the main chat are strictly ooc, or ic as a joke.

activity level: depending on schedule

call me by my character's name or my username

i work a full time job, so activity and muse can vary

only poke me after two weeks without replies unless notified of a hiatus or a deadline coming up that will prevent me from being online

i do plot romance, past romance can be plotted as well. those who know me, know that i do het dom nsa for breakfast. i can plot marriage / engagements, but not as endgames. i do plot endgames if i feel like the plot is good and rich enough.

3rd over 1st, it just limits my creativity

pm to plot

i prefer to plot out a baseline and then see where it's going for us

my character profiles will adapt and change over time

if we plot, please make an effort, my biggest pet peeve is feeling as if i'm doing most of the work

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Forgive us, Hollow Mother. We remember, but we survive.

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Their crest alone, the people of Edrathin whispered behind their fans and raised hands, was blasphemy in the eyes of Galaneth. A fist, breaking from the earth and reaching towards the sky, shattering the roots of the sacred Hollow Mother. An insult to the holy laws of their goddess, House Thayn should he ashamed of their symbol, instead of wearing it proudly.

But wear it proudly, they did. They wore it like the crest of nobility, despite it being the emblem of a commoner family, despite their line never having reached higher than the royal guard. Yet, in its own right, the Thayns considered their duty their highest honor all - blasphemous or not. Their crest, to them, represented the strenght of the earth, its ability to endure and survive, to conquer the elements and turn barren earth into fruitful land - and thus, they would honor what it meant. Protect, fight.

It was for this very reason, Kaedorin's grandfather chose to follow the royal family to Dvarhaalen - duty, honor, the wish to protect those who could not do it themselves.

No Deepcaller had been born into the House Thayn for generations - not as far as Kaedorin was aware of it, at least. And if there had been someone like him, they had been sent to the library to be forgotten. The Thayns would be forgotten with them, now.

Unless they made a name for themselves.

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father : Eadolan Thayn (deceased)

mother : Lythanil Thayn (deceased)

Kaedorin Thayn

sister : Aeleyn Thayn open (currently missing)

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age : 28

dob : 63rd of rekindra

status : exiled

location : hollowhold, dvarhaalen

magick : marrowcraft, bonemending

occupation : trackwarden

face claim : song kang

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They called him soldier, but the stone did not care for names.

He had been born in a tunnel carved long before the first scream of rebellion, beneath the old river vaults where the ceilings wept and the walls remembered. His father had walked into a shaft one morning and never returned. No echoes. No blood. Just silence. That was how the earth claimed people sometimes - not with violence, but with a hush so deep it broke their name apart.

His mother followed slower. The Withering took her breath piece by piece, until she became a husk of warmth in a bed of stone. He had sat beside her, counting each rattle in her lungs, watching her body shrink and vanish while her soul clung to life like lichen on cold rock.

His sister - little Aeleyn - had gone above. Said she would bring medicine. Said she’d come back rich and clever, sun-kissed and triumphant. That was four years ago. He no longer waited.

Hope, he had learned, was just another kind of hunger.

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They say Deepcalling runs in blood, but for Kaedorin, it ran in scars. The gift had come to him not as a blessing but as a convulsion, a seizure of the soul. He had split a tunnel in grief the day his mother died. Tore the ground open with a scream he didn’t remember making. When he woke, the healers said it was a miracle he had survived. The others said it was power.

But he knew what it truly meant. Slow, creeping death, not unlike the Withering.

The stone didn't speak to him like it did to others. It growled. It pulled. It tested him, every time. He has learned to walk with his teeth clenched, his palms raw, his mind nailed down by ritual and repetition. He was not gentle with it. He did not ask it to listen. He commanded it to obey.

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He didn't think himself important. Lowborn, they would've called him once, as if dust had class. But he knew how to hold a blade and how to survive. That was enough. That had always been enough.

He fought for the rebellion not for a throne, not for revenge, but because there was nowhere else left to stand. The deep was his home and if it fell, he fell with it.

And when the tunnels quaked and the dark began to whisper, it was Kaedorin they sent first, to speak with stone, to hold the earth together with bare hands and bitten tongue.

He dreamed sometimes, too. Not of sky, like her.

But of a girl’s voice, laughing in the sun.

And a hand reaching back through ash, still waiting to be held.

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Personality & Themes
Kaedorin is a weight-bearing wall - quiet, cracked, but still standing. He is the kind of strong that no one notices until everything else falls. Grief taught him silence, duty taught him control. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

He doesn’t fight for freedom. He fights so others might sleep without listening for collapse. Loyalty anchors him. Rage drives him. He buries both deep, where no one sees.

He does not believe he matters - but he will bleed for those who do.

He dreams of a world where nothing needs holding up. Of a life without tunnels. Without stone. But he tells no one.

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Scars:

A thick, ropey scar splits the length of his right forearm from wrist to elbow - a reminder of the tunnel collapse he caused the night his mother died. He wears no bracer over it. Let them see.

A piece of the tip of his left ear is missing. A rat-bite, not a battle. He was six. It makes him grimace every time someone assumes it was heroic.

There’s a cluster of hairline petrification along his ribs where it's beginning to eat at him. He binds them with linen before each mission. No complaints. No weakness.

Beneath the vembrace he wears on his left arm, there are three thin but noticeable scars, clearly inflicted by a knife. A reminder of the family he lost, as much as it is a warning.

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Habits:

He wraps his knuckles in cloth even when he’s not fighting. Says it helps him think. The fabric smells of dust, iron and stone.

He carves small notches into the haft of his weapon after each battle - not for kills, but for how many of his own made it back alive.

Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he whispers old songs to the rock walls. Half-melodies his sister used to hum. He pretends she hears him.

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Likes:

The feel of solid ground beneath his boots after a deep shift settles. There’s a peace in the silence that follows - a rare stillness.

Tools more than weapons: pickaxes, hammers, chisels. He likes knowing that something can be built, not just broken. As if it reminds him that, once, he followed the teachings of Galaneth and believed in peace.

Quiet fireside company. Someone near, but not speaking. He doesn’t believe in filling the silence unless it asks to be broken.

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Dislikes:

Surface-laughter - too sharp, too careless. It reminds him of things people up there can afford to forget.

The cold. Not the natural chill of the deep, but the sick kind that clings to the skin before a tunnel dies.

Pity. He’d rather be hated than pitied. Pity is a wound you can’t bandage.

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Other Details:

He’s left-handed, though he fights with both hands out of necessity. His left is faster, more brutal.

Has a soft spot for mushrooms. Not the ones that glow - those are common - but the squat, ugly ones with thick stems. He says they remind him of home.

He’s been offered a commander's rank more than once. He always refuses. Says he’s not the kind people follow. But in the dark, when the tremors come, they do.

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Aeleyn Thayn

╰┈➤ "To the Wilder"

➤ gender : female

➤ age : 24 - 27

➤ kingdom : Edrathin

➤ the long lost sister

➤ dm for plot (she is currently an npc)

Aeleyn left them. It was as easy as that and the honest, brutal truth Kaedorin never knew. She left to find a cure for their mother, to earn money, to bring home something that would help - anything, really. But freedom tastes sweet on the surface and the sun on her skin made her feel free, made her reckless and finally alive. And thus, she left them. Her family, dying and sick and withering.

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╰┈➤ "Die on me now"

➤ gender : female

➤ age : 24 - 29

➤ kingdom : any

➤ the one who got away

➤ dm for plot (she is currently an npc)

He is a rebel, a ghost in the system, hunted and hardened by betrayal - and trust is a luxury he cannot afford. She enters his life under false pretenses - and for all he knew, she could be working for his enemy. But somewhere between the whispered lies and midnight missions, something real begins to form. Against every instinct, he lets her in. She wasn’t meant to care, but she does.

When the truth surfaces, it's too late, the damage is done. She leaves - whether by force or by choice, he doesn’t know - and all he’s left with is the memory of what could have been and the bitter ache of betrayal that tastes too much like love. She was the only one he let close. And the one who disappeared.