the earth will remember, forever and always

“The earth remembers,” they say. And deep below, it does.

When the House of Vernethal fractured beneath the weight of grief and silence, it was Galanteh who rose - not with fire or conquest, but with solemnity. Steady as stone, they took the crown not by force but necessity, crowned by history itself when all others had vanished. For generations, they ruled the verdant kingdom of Edrathin, a realm of green canopies and pale mountains, until the war came and with it, their exile.

Now, what remains of them lives far from sunlight. In the winding, ancient tunnels of Dvarhaalen, the surviving royals walk among echoes and stone, carrying the brittle inheritance of a vanished throne.

To some, they are the last hope of reclamation - the flickering ember of a lineage that might still rise and restore what was lost. Children whisper their names with reverence. The rebels wear their crest on their tunics. To others, they are only a shadow, too proud to die, too broken to lead - a memory with a pulse, clinging to ghosts.

Among their allies, House Galanteh is spoken of with quiet respect - a family tempered by sorrow and time, enduring like roots beneath winter earth. But among cynics and rivals, they are mocked as relics, ancient things who cannot accept that the world has changed. Even the common folk are split - some kneel in secret at shrines built in their image, while others mutter that they should have stayed buried, that legends do not make leaders.

And yet, Galanteh remains.

Caught in the stillness between past and future, they are a house stretched thin between memory and motion. Bound by tradition, but beckoned toward something new. Every word they speak, every alliance they consider, is a step along a faultline. The kingdom they once ruled is gone. But the earth remembers.

And so do they.

King Zarhwan - ruling Gearch in Dvarhaalen (alive, npc)

Queen Myrrkae - current high priestess of Galaneth (alive, npc)

Princess Velitaeh - leader of the rebellion

Veritas Daranteh

Prince Kieran Caius Daranteh

Princess Eryanna Daranteh

dob : 14th of thalos

status : exiled

location : hollowhold, dvarhaalen

magick : marrowcraft, terraforge

face claim : wang churan

She was the firstborn of the last sovereign house, delivered moments before her brother, her cry echoing like a faultline splitting. The seers whispered that she had the mountain’s breath in her lungs, that the earth would answer to her before it answered to kings. That hers was the heavier crown to bear.

The old kingdom - whatever survived of it - had not seen the sky in over a century. When the occupiers came with their foreign banners and quiet knives, the people of stone had no choice but to become dust. They fled downward, carving life from the bones of Dvarhaalen, a city that had once been a jewel of the underworld and now was only ruin, patched with salt and memory.

She grew in exile. Marble halls crumbled beneath her feet. The songs of her people were sung in half-whispers, half-tongues. The throne was gone, its weight ghosting the shoulders of a boy too kind to bear it - and a girl too fierce to let it go.

The Gearchy was no more. But Velitaeh did not kneel.

If she had been willing to pay the price.

To turn to stone.

And so she didn't.

Power like hers had demanded not passion, but control. She had learned to lock her grief in iron. To fold her rage until it became thin and sharp and silent. If she broke, she would not break alone. The caverns would collapse. The people would die. So she clenched her jaw. So she endured.

Above ground, the enemy still sat fat in her ancestral home. Below, her father wasted away, ravaged by the Withering - a sickness that rotted the lungs and thinned the soul. No healer had cured it. No mage had dared to try. He ruled nothing now but the hollowness of his own decline.

Her mother survived him already - cold, pragmatic, cruel in the way that only love could be. She did not believed in rebellion, only in preservation. She kept the people fed, the water clean, the children quiet. She watched Velitaeh with tired eyes and said nothing.

So she led them in the dark, through tunnels that shuddered with sleeping gods and stone older than memory. She walked where the mountain listened. She spoke to it in stillness.

And dreamed, in secret, of sky.

Velitaeh is a living faultline - calm on the surface, pressure mounting underneath. Her restraint is her strength and her loneliness. She loves fiercely but shows little. She leads not for glory, but because no one else can. Every moment is measured. If she stumbles, people die.

She dreams of soil that breathes green again. Of sunlight and rain that smells like copper and life. But she tells no one.

• A thin, silvery scar curls from the base of her left ear down her jawline - a mark from her first act of rebellion, when a ceiling collapsed during a covert operation. She never let it be healed.

• A cluster of pale, almost petal-shaped scars wraps around her left shoulder. No one knows their origin but her twin brother.

• She counts her breaths when she feels her magic stir - four in, four out - pressing her fingertips into her palm to ground herself.

• When tense, she runs her thumb along the edge of her belt dagger, a gift from her mother she’s never used. The hilt is smooth from years of wear.

• Velitaeh speaks to the stone before sleeping. A whisper of thanks. A request for stillness. She believes the mountain listens.

• The taste of bitterroot tea, brewed strong and dark. It clears her head and keeps dreams at bay.

• Stories told in quiet corners, the kind that are half-truth, half-memory. She listens more than she speaks, especially to the children.

• Old maps, cracked, curling things with long-forgotten names. She traces them like they’re prayers.

• Torchlight. It’s too hot, too greedy. She prefers the soft, constant glow of bioluminescent moss and deepstone crystals.

• The sound of dripping water. It reminds her of time passing, of rot, of everything that cannot be held.

• Formal titles. She allows them only when necessary. “Velitaeh” is enough. “Princess” is a ruin.

• Her favorite lullaby is the Lament of the Ashmounts. Her father used to hum it under his breath when he thought no one was listening.

• She never saw the sky before the rebellion started. Her mother used to describe it as “too vast to trust.”

• Her heartbeat slows when she channels. Her blood cools, her breath stills - until she feels like stone herself.

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

➤ gender : female 

➤ age : 24 - 31

➤ kingdom : any

➤ a doomed romance that ended badly

➤ dm for discussion

Once, they were just two girls, their fingers always finding each other in the dark. But time, with its quiet cruelty, turned play into longing. As young women, their touches grew deliberate - shy at first, then reckless, like striking matches too close to dry grass to set it ablaze.

Now, the echo of those soft beginnings hangs heavy between them, soured and rusted. Love spoiled on the vine, leaving only the ache of what almost was and in the spaces between words, between glances, lies the ghost of something tender, tangled in the bramble of anger neither quite knows how to let go.

They are no longer girls. They are memory and bitterness, still reaching - but no longer sure if they want to be held or hurt.

➤ gender : male

➤ age : 28 - 35

➤ kingdom : edrathin

➤ arranged engagement 

➤ dm for discussion

They chose him for her - an alliance sealed in quiet ceremony, not affection. His hands are cold, his eyes colder and between them lies only duty, hollow and sharp-edged. There is no tenderness here, only the brittle politeness of two strangers bound by expectation.

Her parents say it's time to kneel before Galaneth, to don the veil, to bear the weight of sacred vows and a husband's name. They speak of legacy and grace, of divine favor resting on her shoulders like a crown of thorns. But all she feels is the suffocation of stillness, of a life carved by others' hands.

She goes through the motions with the precision of ritual, but inside, something resists. Something wild and aching, something that remembers freedom. There is no love here—only the long echo of her silence, and the gods who do not answer.

Taken!

➤ plot for : velitaeh daranteh

➤ gender : any

➤ age : any within a +- 5 range of veli

➤ kingdom : edrathin

➤ the most trusted friend

➤ dm for discussion

She tells them nothing. Not of the midnight meetings, nor the ink-stained maps hidden beneath her floorboards. Not of the oath she made with her blood, or the quiet war blooming in the shadows of the palace of her heart. They don’t need to know, not yet.

And still, they are the one she turns to when her hands shake and when the mask slips. When the weight of what she’s becoming presses too hard on the bones of who she was. They hold her gaze without suspicion and speak her name like it still means something soft. To them, she is just Velitaeh - no titles, no violence in her fists. Just their oldest friend.

She wants to keep them untouched by the storm she walks into. But some nights, she almost tells them. Just to see if they’ll flinch. Just to know if they would follow.