: ̗̀➛ timezone is gmt -5

: ̗̀➛ written for the april showers universe, est. april of 2026

: ̗̀➛ profile completion: around 95%

: ̗̀➛ ranges from semi-para to novella depending on muse.

: ̗̀➛ i do not care about mirroring and will not expect you to mirror either.

: ̗̀➛ do not give me one-liners unless it's in one of the ic chat spaces.

: ̗̀➛ i do not roleplay on walls. rooms or group pms only please!

: ̗̀➛ do not expect daily replies.

: ̗̀➛ i work a full-time job with crazy commute times so activity most days is going to be very spotty.

: ̗̀➛ please do not poke me unless it's been more than ten days!

: ̗̀➛i am not my character and he is not me. what my character says and does is not always reflective of my real-life beliefs and values. do not conflate the two.

: ̗̀➛ certain themes, such as smut and erotica, are heavily dependent on whether i'm comfortable with you as a writer and whether it fits the plot for our characters.

: ̗̀➛do not try to force a relationship onto my character. this is non-negotiable and you will be blocked/ignored if you try.

: ̗̀➛ absolute no-no's: anything revolving around incest, topics around sexual assault, certain kinks (can be discussed in pms), in-depth depictions of terminal illness, anything that deals with cheating or infidelity, god-modding my character

: ̗̀➛ themes that are okay and encouraged: angst, in-character drama, romance if plotted, smut if plotted and it serves the characters or plot, slice-of-life

✿ฺ nicknames:

mourning dove, little fawn

┊┊❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. ｡˚ 　　°

date of birth/age: 22 april ⋮⋮ 33

place of residence: the edge between mirror lake and the emerald forest, magnolia

hybrid species: chital deer hybrid

occupation: gravekeeper & part-time herbalist

pronouns: he/him/his, they/them/theirs

orientation: panromantic-demisexual

marital status: single & not interested

_{✿ฺ as this character is for an alternate universe, the mun has taken some creative liberties with his information. this is a fictional portrayal and in no way representative of the idol faceclaim.}

┊┊❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. ｡˚ 　　°

height: approx. 175 cm

eye color: hazel

hair color: natural black w/ silver undertones. typically fluffy and mussed by the wind.

speaking cadence: soft-spoken, but not shy.

gait/posture: graceful and fluid, much like the animal he embodies.

┊┊❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. ｡˚ 　　°

attire: iseul considers his attire to be casual and not defined by whether it's masculine or feminine. he wears what is comfortable, easy to work in, and makes him feel good. everything he owns has either been thrifted or sewed by his own hand.

sample 1 — sample 2 — sample 3 — sample 4

fragrance: petrichor (the scent of rain), with hints of eucalyptus, cedar, lavender, and lemon

jewelry & other body mods:

⤷ shell necklace

⇢ multi-layered necklace with pearls and scales — a gift from his late mother.

⤷ family pendant

⇢ also a gift from his mother, bestowed to the eldest child on their 7th birthday. it was commissioned by his great-grandfather for his eldest daughter with the belief that it would grant her the lifelong gift of protection and abundance.

⤷ ear piercings

⇢ has 4 types of piercings in each ear.

⤷ glasses

⇢ only wears them when he’s reading

extras:

⤷ freckles

⇢ dotted along his nose and cheeks. very noticeable in the sun

⤷ antlers

⇢ tall and twisted, oftentimes adorned with jewelry courtesy of his sisters

temperament: melancholy-phlegmatic

enneagram: 4w5

moral alignment: neutral good

fatal flaw: self-sacrificial

love language:

✿ฺ giving: quality time, physical touch, acts of service

✿ฺ receiving: physical touch, words of affirmation, acts of service

┊┊❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. ｡˚ 　　°

iseul is a man who feels the world deeply, but seldom voices the full weight of it, choosing instead to act with quiet, diligent compassion and care. he is more inclined to listen than he is to speak, and to those who might not be close with him, this might come off as being soft-spoken or withdrawn.

compassionate ⋮⋮ thoughtful ⋮⋮ resourceful ⋮⋮ empathetic ⋮⋮ sensitive ⋮⋮ kind-hearted

negative:

slow to trust ⋮⋮ resentful ⋮⋮ anti-social ⋮⋮ holds grudges ⋮⋮ anxious ⋮⋮ jealous

neutral:

soft-spoken ⋮⋮ calm ⋮⋮ guarded

soft textures ⋮⋮ herbal teas ⋮⋮ heavy rain storms ⋮⋮ the warmth of a hearth in the winter ⋮⋮ the dampness of moss under his bare feet ⋮⋮ quiet strolls through the graveyard ⋮⋮ plant foraging ⋮⋮ chamomile and honey milk ⋮⋮ the raspberry cream-cheese danishes from the bakery

dislikes:

cruelty towards animals or children ⋮⋮ unattended graves ⋮⋮ rooms without windows ⋮⋮ loud and sudden noises ⋮⋮ people touching his antlers without asking ⋮⋮ the taste of dark chocolate (he says it's too bitter) ⋮⋮ cucumbers if they're not cooked into something

hobbies:

tending to plants or graves in silence ⋮⋮ pressing flowers into old books ⋮⋮ fixing broken things ⋮⋮ practicing archery ⋮⋮ braiding his daughter's hair ⋮⋮ mending clothes ⋮⋮ nature walks through the emerald forest

habits:

walks around barefoot when possible ⋮⋮ fidgets with his pendant or other small objects ⋮⋮ apologizes reflexively ⋮⋮ never asks for help ⋮⋮ runs his hand through his hair ⋮⋮ bites his lower lip when he's concentrating ⋮⋮ keeps his home tidy yet cluttered ⋮⋮ paces back and forth when uncomfortable ⋮⋮ avoids eye contact when uncomfortable

vulnerability & truly being seen ⋮⋮ being seen crying ⋮⋮ losing his daughter ⋮⋮ burdening others

secrets:

now what could have possibly given you the idea that he'd ever share his secrets with you?

status: awaiting response

location: pms

It went something like this...

┊┊❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. ｡˚ 　　°

Somewhere in Magnolia, nestled in the valley between the edge of the Emerald Forest and Mirror Lake, stood a lone homestead overlooked by the pines that stood watch overhead. At its heart was a quaint little cottage enshrouded by twisting vines, colorful flower blossoms and gorgeous blooming foliage, with ivy-laden arbors and flickering blue lanterns strung up in the branches of the willows and dogwoods.

It was here, within this tranquil little corner of the earth some generations ago, that the Hwang family had taken root. Through their compassionate love and labor, they had nurtured a gentle home for the fallen.

Theirs were the hands that buried the dead when others could not. Theirs were the arms that cradled those left behind in comfort. It was because of their quiet, attentive care that their name rose to prominence.

One particular morning, during the height and the dampness of spring, just as the sun began to crest over the distant horizon and the fair folk of the garden retired to their hidden floral abodes, the shrill, piercing cry of a newborn babe cut through the silence like a razor through silk.

At the northern edge of the garden, just outside the graveyard's entrance, tending to the wild berry bushes, Hwang Hwayoung froze, gardening shears slipping through her fingers.

Having grown up in this space, she knew the lay of the land better than any other. No one aside from her and her family lived here, and the paths that traveling caravans trodded looped far around the western edge of the property and over the teetering bridge that led into the wood. Yet the cry she heard was near, as were the storm clouds gathering overhead.

Then, from the threshold of their home, came the voice of her husband, sharp and urgent "Hwayoung, darling, come quick!"

She tossed her satchel off along with her gardening gloves and ran up the path back to the cottage, chest tight and heartbeat pulsing in her ears. And then, she saw him, standing at the threshold of their home, with a small, writhing bundle cradled in his arms.

"Is that—?" she began, hands already outstretched.

"A gift from the people of the deepwood," her husband answered, passing the wailing child to her. The cries hushed immediately.

Hwayoung looked upon the child then. His reddened cheeks. His clenched fists. The smallest protrusion of antlers poking from the crown of his head. He was beautiful, and everything she could have ever wanted.

She named him Iseul, meaning morning dew, for he'd been found among the dew-laden blossoms, greeted by cheerful birdsong and the warm, golden glow of the Magnolia sunrise.

He grew up learning the lay of the land and the rituals of their family as they'd been passed through generations. He learned from his mother how to wash and prepare the bodies of the departed before he could read and helped his father tend to the graves before he could hold a feather quill.

And yet, even those who selflessly live to watch over the fallen are not exempt from the eventuality of succumbing to the same fate.

┊┊❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. ｡˚ 　　°

His father had passed away first, suddenly, from an ailment unknown even to the best physicians from the capital.

His mother had been distraught, so overcome by her grief that the duty and responsibility of burying Hwang Jungwoo fell onto Iseul's shoulders. He'd barely entered his eighth winter, and yet, he had not faltered, nor had he cried, for that was not a luxury he was able to afford.

Hwayoung fell seven years later. Heart failure, the physicians said.

The tried for hours to revive her, from simple chest compressions to high-end medicinal drips found only at the larger scale establishments deep within the capital. She was pronounced dead after several hours.

Once more, the duty of carrying his parent to the grave fell upon his shoulders.

During the ceremony, he remained eerily steady, holding his younger sisters tightly as they sobbed against his chest. It wasn't until later, long after the sun had set, after he'd tucked the girls into their beds, that he crumbled in his own room.

At just fifteen, he was pushed into a role of guardianship he was not ready for and forced to take the mantle in his parents' absence. He has not uttered a word since then.

His silence became the cornerstone of the Hallowed Grove. He cared for his daughter and sisters by day and looked over the graves by night. Gone were the quiet lullabies and whispered prayers of peace for the departed, replaced instead with something quieter. Something sadder.

Whenever he visits town nowadays, it always stirs up a myriad of whispers. Anyone who's lived in Magnolia long enough knows of the tragedy that befell the Hwang household and the sacrifices Iseul made just to give his daughter and sisters a comfortable life. He rarely shows himself unless it's for supplies, and he prefers to keep it that way as much as he can.

✧. ┊dynamic: iseul's younger sisters (3/3 available)

✧. ┊race: human or hybrid

✧. ┊themes: slice-of-life, sibling bonds, grief & loss

✧. ┊age/gender: 24 - 30, women only

✧. ┊occupation: any

✧. ┊constraints: character's surname must be hwang. ideally, at least one sister has a more antagonistic relationship with him.

✧. ┊description: You were the only ones keeping Iseul anchored to reality.

After the passing of your mother, Iseul stepped in and acted as your guardian. He was a child himself and yet he cared for you. Fed and clothed you. Tended to you when you were sick. Comforted you when you were sad. All while still maintaining the responsibilities that came with being the Keepers of the Hallowed Grove.

He wasn't perfect, but he did his best with what he could at the time.

Now, you've all grown up. One at a time, you each left the homestead in pursuit of your own lives until only Iseul remained. But the bonds you fostered out of survival never wavered, and you always find your way back to each other again and again.

✧. ┊dynamic: a close childhood friend/confidant

✧. ┊race: human or hybrid

✧. ┊themes: slice-of-life, friendship, emotional anchor

✧. ┊age/gender: late 20s to early 30s, any gender

✧. ┊occupation: any

✧. ┊constraints: N/A

✧. ┊description: You were raised beneath the same roof—well, alright, not exactly. But you were close enough that you might as well have been with how often you found yourself at the Hwang family's doorstep.

Iseul had always been a quiet child. Sometimes unnervingly so. You learned the rhythm of his silences and what it meant when he opened his mouth to bare his heart to you. You remember the lake, a braid half undone by the wind, the small scar that cuts just underneath the corner of his right eye.

When Iseul's parents passed away, you quickly came to realize just how rare and precious those moments were. He seldom speaks, and ever more seldom leaves his home unless you drag him out, but you still keep coming back, and he still lets you in.

✧. ┊dynamic: an apprentice or mentee

✧. ┊race: human or hybrid

✧. ┊themes: slice-of-life, apprenticeships, grief & loss, found family

✧. ┊age/gender: 20-25, any gender

✧. ┊occupation: gravekeeper or herbalist

✧. ┊constraints: N/A

✧. ┊description: You turned up at the homestead one day with nothing more than a pair of gloves, a disarmingly bright smile, and an eagerness to learn the way of the Keepers. Iseul never quite knew what to do with you, but you were persistent. You'd trail behind him during his foraging walks and watch his hands as they pruned the leaves. Whenever he tended to the graves, you knelt beside him and studied the way he lit the incense and scrubbed the headstones.

Eventually, he took you under his wing as an apprentice. He seldom spoke, and you were never sure whether you'd crossed some invisible boundary of his. Yet he always remained gentle and ever-watchful of your growth, and in the quiet, you both found some sort of kinship.

status: response pending

location: pms

status: awaiting response

location: pms

status: awaiting response

location: pms

status: response pending

location: pms

status: response pending

location: emerald forest

status: awaiting response

location: hollow cup teahouse

status: awaiting response

location: emerald forest

15th october — 25th october, 2016

emerald forest, magnolia

⊱.˚── · 𓍊𓋼𓍊₊⋆ ⊹₊↟𓃦↟₊⊹ ⋆₊𓍊𓋼𓍊 · ──˚.⊰

It was the autumn of his twenty-third year, the time of the season when the leaves had all but fallen and the animals of the grove began their preparations for the impending winter, when he’d met her—a bright-eyed, wild girl with moss tangled in her dark curls, dirt smudged across her cheeks, and a tongue sharp enough to cut through stone. She looked as though she’d been carved straight from the earth itself, beautiful and lethal in equal measure, yet carefree in a way that only someone untouched by one of life’s harshest truths could be.

Her name was Cecilia Faerhaven, and she’d been accompanying a traveling caravan on their voyage to the northern harbor, where’d they’d board a ship and set sail to the cluster of small isles just a week out from the mainland, when one of their comrades had fallen ill on the roadside.

It had been Iseul who offered to take them in, giving them the promise of a warm meal and a place to rest until their comrade recovered.

The following morning, while all the other caravaners still lay asleep in their cots, Cecilia pressed herself to Iseul’s side in the kitchen, the corners of her lips upturned in unabashed delight, and insisted that she help him prepare breakfast for everyone. She called it a gesture of gratitude.

He would learn later that it was no more than an excuse to be near him and that it would work every single time because she wasn’t exactly the type to take “no” for an answer.

┊┊❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. 。˚ 　　°

“You’re awfully quiet, aren’t ‘ya?”

Iseul, crouched over a faded headstone, horsehair scrubber in hand, peered up in the direction of the voice. Cecilia was perched on the nearby fence, hands clamped around the wood at her sides to hold herself steady as she leaned forward, a quiet, probing curiosity brewing behind her eyes that made it feel too much like he was being peeled apart at the seams.

Five days had passed since his guests’ arrival. The caravaners’ sickly comrade was slowly on the mend, but by this point, Iseul was mentally exhausted. When he wasn’t being forced to converse or partake in one of the group’s rowdy card games against his will, he spent his time hiding in the garden or in the deepest parts of the graveyard. And Cecilia—bright, curious, awfully stubborn Cecilia—always somehow managed to find him.

He dipped his head and returned to scrubbing the headstone.

“Doesn’t it ever get lonely out here?”

This time, Iseul sat back on his haunches, offering her a noncommittal shrug. He didn’t look up, letting his gaze instead fall onto a rosehip plant nearby.

“I mean, you’re way out here at the edge of the forest, miles away from the village, and it seems like you don’t really go into town all that much. Plus, I highly doubt you get many travelers along these old, beaten-down back roads,” Cecilia said. “I imagine it’s got to get rather lonesome.”

“I suppose, sometimes, it does.” Iseul kept his gaze fixed on the rosehips. Behind him, there was a quiet huff, a rustle of fabric, and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. He thought she had gone back inside. Instead, when he centered his attention again, Cecilia was kneeling next to him, delicate fingers tracing the faded engraving on the headstone he’d been brushing.

“So why don’t you… I don’t know,” she trailed off, brows furrowing as she contemplated her next words.

Iseul beat her to it. “I guess I just never really saw a need. That’s all.”

And for a while after that, neither of them spoke. Not because it was awkward, but because there was simply nothing left to say.

┊┊❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. 。˚ 　　°

It took four more days for the sick traveler to recover. That meant four more days of asinine card games. Four more days of listening to the group bicker over who got the last of the butter rolls at dinner.

Four more days of sitting in the graveyard answering Cecilia’s endless strings of questions.

Finally, on the tenth day, the travelers mounted their horses around noon, following the first calls of the swallows and swifts, with satiated bellies and their adventurous spirits renewed. As a gesture of gratitude for his kindness and hospitality, they presented Iseul with a beautiful collection of ceramic dinnerware before they set off down the road, bounding over the teetering little bridge that Iseul had crossed many times in his youth, and disappeared into the Emerald Forest.

The only one to look back was Cecilia, with a look in her eye that Iseul couldn’t quite understand. And yet, it twisted his heart into knots all the same.

⊱.˚── · 𓍊𓋼𓍊₊⋆ ⊹₊↟𓃦↟₊⊹ ⋆₊𓍊𓋼𓍊 · ──˚.⊰

threads:

location:

status:

location:

3rd january, 2017

emerald forest, magnolia

⊱.˚── · 𓍊𓋼𓍊₊⋆ ⊹₊↟𓃦↟₊⊹ ⋆₊𓍊𓋼𓍊 · ──˚.⊰

The usual hush that lived over the little cottage and the graveyard had returned. The seasons had turned once again, the cozy chill of autumn lulled to sleep by the arctic hush of winter, where icicles hung from the eaves of the rooftops, and all the nearby wildlife had stowed themselves away in their burrows.

It was just after midnight when Iseul heard knocking on his door. No more than three taps in rapid succession, sharp and insistent. He had just finished stoking the fire burning low in the hearth, a final measure to keep the cottage warm throughout the remainder of the evening until he could retrieve more firewood from the shed at daybreak.

He paused, eyes fixed on the door. It was rare for anyone to travel these trails during the winter, and rarer still that he received any visitors this time of year unless it was for work. And even then, those work visits were usually conducted during daylight hours.

The knock came again. More urgent this time. Then, a voice, meek and frayed at the edges, like they’d just been dragged through some sort of indescribable hell and somehow lived to tell its tale, said, “Iseul? Are you in there? Oh, please don’t be asleep yet…”

Cecilia.

She and her caravan should’ve just crossed over the border to the northern isles two days ago. Why had she returned to Magnolia?

Another knock. This time, Iseul stood from his crouched position near the hearth and headed to the door. He’d hardly unlatched the lock before Cecilia came barreling through the threshold. She smelled of seawater and smoke, and her jacket was covered in snow and something that looked suspiciously like dried blood. She looked at him for all of two seconds, eyes wide and unfocused, and then threw herself against his chest in hysterics.

“Miss Cecilia?” He placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her and glanced at the space where she previously stood. There was nothing there to indicate that she’d traveled with someone. Only a single set of boot imprints in the snow that accumulated on the porch. “I thought you and your comrades had crossed over the border by now. Why… what happened to you?”

Cecilia only shook her head, and Iseul, chest tight, immediately understood what that kind of silence and refusal meant.

He took a few steps backwards, pulling her with him, and gently closed the door before wrapping his arms more fully around her, and it took just that one gesture for her to crumble against him. Her knees buckled, legs folding beneath her like they didn’t remember how to hold her weight. Iseul went down with her, keeping his hands steady against her back as he maneuvered their bodies to the nearest wall for support and stayed with her there until morning.

It was only when the hiccuping cries subsided, and her breathing evened out in reluctant exhaustion, that he managed to speak around the knot forming in his throat. “I’m sorry…”

⊱.˚── · 𓍊𓋼𓍊₊⋆ ⊹₊↟𓃦↟₊⊹ ⋆₊𓍊𓋼𓍊 · ──˚.⊰