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╰┈➤ "Bastion of ash and stone"

➤ gender : female

➤ age : in her 30s

➤ kingdom : solkarath

➤ estranged wife, the marriage is unhappy and tense

➤ dm for discussion

TW: cheating, would like for the pair to reconcile at one point during the plot.

She was meant to be a balm, an answer to his silence, his haunted grief, the echo of a name he never says aloud. A strategic match, a union of power and prestige, bound by ceremony rather than affection. But from the beginning, she knew one thing for certain - that his heart had been buried with someone else, whose blood was most likely on his hands, albeit figuratively more than literally.

Hyperion Valmyros, she knows, does not love her. He barely looks at her, his body leaves their marriage bed before the warmth fades, chasing fleeting comforts and satisfaction in other arms. And she knows, of course she knows. The perfume that clings, the bruises not hers, the practiced lies left to rot between them.

She wears the title of wife like armor, her silence mistaken for submission. But she is not naive, nor unfeeling. What began as bitter disappointment has hardened into something quieter, more dangerous - a cold resolve. She may be the wife he did not want, but she will not be the woman he forgets.

Important: the woman claiming this will need to connect with Fenrir Valmyros as childhood / teenage sweethearts.

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By Blood, By Steel, For the Crown.

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Head of House: Duke Hesperian Valmyros (alive/npc)

Duchess Morvenna Valmyros (alive/npc)

Hyperion Valmyros

Fenrir Valmyros

Cahir Valmyros

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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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Personality & Themes

Hyperion is a man defined by restraint - not the calm of serenity, but the control of a dam threatening to burst. He is cold, blunt and iron-willed, with little patience for sentiment. His every action is tactical, even in conversation. He speaks sparingly and without softness, expecting those around him to either match his discipline or fall in line.

He does not believe in divine favor - only in power earned through force, endurance and command. The gods are symbols to him, not saviors.

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Scars:

Fine scar under the right eye, barely visible - the result of a ritual duel with a former subordinate who challenged his command. Hyperion let the man strike first, then incinerated him in one movement. He wears the scar openly, not as shame, but as a reminder that leniency always leaves a mark.

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Habits:

Inspects his armor before dawn - alone, even when not deploying. It’s a ritual, a silent inspection in full uniform, candlelit, as if preparing for judgment.

Burns parchment edges when reading reports - A holdover from his early training. He singes anything sensitive the moment he’s finished.

Cracks his knuckles before giving orders - a slow, deliberate gesture that unnerves even seasoned officers. It's not a tic, it's calculated presence.

Walks the training fields at night - without announcing himself. Recruits fear the “Ashwalk,” as he’s been known to appear from smoke and shadows mid-drill, silent and unsmiling.

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Likes:

Order and silence - Hyperion thrives in structure and cannot abide chaos in any form. The only music is percussive war rhythm.

Tactical histories - He collects annotated war records and personal journals of long-dead generals. Not for nostalgia, but to anticipate the mistakes of others.

Solar eclipses - One of the few celestial phenomena he reveres. He finds them ominous but cleansing, like a divine reckoning.

Hot, bitter tea - Brewed with ironbark leaves and volcanic ash. Keeps him sharp. He drinks it alone, never socially.

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Dislikes:

Messy flamework - He despises Pyromancers who can't control their Igniscraft. “Fire is a language. Stop screaming.”

Laughter in war camps - To him, joy during a campaign is a betrayal of the dead. Soldiers under his command rarely smile - and know better than to try.

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Other Details:

Hyperion hunts Deepcallers and rogue casters of all kinds for sports. He loves the challenge of going toe to toe with other gifted warriors, deeming himself and the powers of Solkarath superior.

[ ... writing ]

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oldest son of the house valmyros, general of iron blood and ashen fists · Scorchwright

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age : 39

dob : 37nd of thalos

status : married (*please see connections for more)

location : ignivar spire

powers: igniscraft, magma weave

face claim : kim youngkwang

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Named after the most loyal beast of Solkarath: the Varrakai Hound, said to perish alongside its master rather than flee—the seal of House Valmyros stands as a symbol of unwavering devotion to the Heliarchy. This emblem, often etched in gold and crimson, represents not only fidelity but the enduring martial legacy of one of Solkarath's most formidable noble bloodlines.

A proud military house, the Valmyros' hold dominion over the Varrakai region, a strategically vital territory known for producing elite soldiers and commanding officers. Their influence runs deep through the kingdom’s veins of warfare. For as long as Solkarath has stood, House Valmyros has presided over the Ministry of War, shaping the kingdom’s military doctrine and spearheading countless campaigns in the name of the Crown.

The current patriarch, a former general whose name still echoes across battlefield songs and military halls, now serves as Minister of War—a role passed down through generations of disciplined hands. His sons, all seasoned soldiers in their own right, stand ready to succeed him, trained not only in tactics and swordsmanship but in the burden of legacy and duty. To bear the Valmyros name is to stand as the sword-arm of the Heliarchy, loyal until the last breath.

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There was a time Hyperion Valmyros believed he could become his father.

Not simply inherit the title, or don the same admired uniform, or match his voice stride-for-stride in command - no, he wanted to become him. The kind of man who drew silence when he entered the war chamber, whose name alone made foreign scouts think twice before breaching their borders. Hyperion chased that ghost as boys often chase gods - blindly, hungrily, with scraped knuckles and a mouth full of blood and ash.

He trained with a fury that bordered on compulsion. No praise was enough. No bruise deep enough to convince him he’d gone far enough. Even in sleep, he dreamt of war tables and flagstone marches, of salutes crisp as winter air. When he earned his first commendation, he didn’t smile - he sat in silence, in private, alone beneath the barracks stairwell, because his father hadn’t been there to see it.

But where his ambition carved him into steel, it also dulled his ability to bend. His warmth, once fleeting and awkward, vanished altogether by the time he was twenty-five. Commands became easier than conversation. Loyalty, a currency he demanded but no longer gave.

He paid the price in whispers long before he recognized the cost.

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And then there was Cahir. Hyperion had always weathered his siblings before, thought little of them and not very highly, no matter what they did - petulant, spoiled creatures who (in his opinion) lived off the name Valmyros without bearing its weight. But Cahir was different. And worse, still, he hadn’t done anything to earn it in Hyperion's eyes. A commoner, foul-blooded.

Hyperion hated that most of all. Not the way Cahir seemingly claimed his place within their household by name and proxy. Not his talent, his gifts. He hated that he couldn’t name what exactly made him feel so… threatened. He told himself it was strategy. That the firebound legions would teach the boy humility. That delaying his rise was necessary, patriotic. He told himself that forcing Cahir to partake in the knight tournament and chaining him to Princess Seraphyna was a noble thing to do. For Solkarath, always. But somewhere beneath the armor, beneath the fire-forged discipline, he felt it. Something rotten blooming in the dark, like fear.

His other brother, Fenrir? Perhaps a like-minded spirit, if Hyperion could ever claim to have those. But, alas, he had never bothered to get to know his family beyond the borders of duty and power. Ultimately, he had carved himself out to be a lonely man, surrounded by siblings and people he was supposed to love. Supposed to care about. Now, he wasn't sure if he would shed a single tear, if they burned to ashes.

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There was a time Hyperion almost believed in something gentler. He’d been engaged, once. The daughter of a minor house - clever, disarming, with laughter like wet silk. He let himself imagine a life beyond the flame for a while. Let her touch the parts of him that weren’t yet stone.

But as inevitably as cinder took flame, came betrayal.

His best friend. Her. The hidden letters. The found embrace. The tangled limbs in a bedroom neither of them expected him to arrive early.

He did not scream. He did not weep. Hyperion smiled that day, slow and cold and left without a word. But the days that followed were a bloodless campaign. Silent rumors spread like wildfire. That the woman was pregnant. That the friend had claimed her too early. That a wedding had already been arranged to protect the family’s honor.

The marriage happened two months later. The friend vanished into a forgotten outpost beyond Edrathin’s cliffs. No one remembered his name after that - only that once, he and Hyperion Valmyros had shared a toast.

Since then, Hyperion’s affections have been fleeting, cruel, or transactional. He collected lovers the way soldiers collect scars - notched and never spoken of. It was easier that way. Flesh didn’t ask for explanations. Desire could be wielded, spent, dismissed.

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And now, after all those years after his silent heartbreak, he had chosen to taken a wife. The arrangement is… convenient. Political. Necessary. The warmth in their union, if there is any, is veiled by protocol and distance. Her name is known, but rarely spoken in his presence. She dines elsewhere. Sleeps elsewhere, more often than not. But she bears his sigil and that is enough for now.

Hyperion stands as both shield and shadow. His legacy, once a dream of glory, has curdled into something colder - a fortress of command where love, regret and softness are locked behind stone-thick silence.

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╰┈➤ "Cinder between Brothers"

➤ gender : male

➤ age : 35 - 40

➤ kingdom : solkarath

➤ best friend turned mortal enemy

➤ dm for discussion

He was once Hyperion's shadow, his brother in all but blood, yet in fierce laughter echoing through war camps, secrets traded under stars, loyalty forged in the fire of youth. But love cleaved them apart, not betrayal of crown or creed, not even a war. Just love - messy, foolish, undeniable.

He hadn't meant to fall for her, really. She was Hyperion’s, promised and radiant, but still she looked at him like he was something worth unraveling. And he let her.

Hyperion never forgave, had no mercy in his heart for friend and foe alike. But he didn't burn with anger either - he burned with precision. Ruthless and slow. He tore through their lives like a man scorned by gods, leaving nothing untouched and nothing spared.

They are no longer men, they are consequences. And when they meet again, there's no room for memory.

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╰┈➤ "Indulge in darkness"

➤ gender : female

➤ age : 29 - 41

➤ kingdom : any

➤ a lover from another nation, possibly a dangerous connection

➤ dm for discussion

TW: Cheating, see his profile for more

She is the envoy’s shadow, perhaps always at the fringes of things happening where people gather. Not a noble, yet also no soldier, not quite. A healer perhaps, he thinks while watching her. Or even a spy - who knows? Her presence is quiet, watchful and wrong in all the right ways, something luring him in as much as it repulses him. Hyperion should ignore her - every glance is a risk, every exchange a thread pulled loose. But something in her sees through the iron and sees the man still bleeding beneath his armor of ruin.

They meet in secret and at first, it’s nothing but curiosity - then it turns into defiance. But this affair is a sword balanced on both their throats, for one reason or the other. He stopped thinking about it, caught in the need for her and in the madness of pleasure. Still, he returns to her - week after week - as if drawn by fate, or punishment.