If you're not me or Peregrine. Do not respond.

This story follows the path of two beings falling in love, the problem with that is--a dark evil Queen wants her Tiefling lover to herself...by any means.

”ethereal, almost ghostly..”

Victor Grimald Thornfield

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Nickname(s): Vic, Victor or Sir

Title(s): ‘Knight of the Magnarulea‘ ; ‘Blade of the Realm’

Orientation: Aromantic; has no time to toy around.

Rank: Knight/Knight Commander

Race/Species: Human

Sex: Male

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Height: 6’2

Weight: 195lbs

Build: Victor’s physique has been chiselled from the adventures he’s been through. He’s a heavy-set man with beefy arms and uncouth thickset limbs that have been marred from the battles he beared. He carries his presence with a lot of dignity, a well-maintained posture, head retained with authority and hands set on the hilt of his sword courteously. He has muddy brownish hair, grown into a fledged mullet, a pair of radiant green-hue irises and a carven light-coloured face. He’s always seen with his steel armour, a honed longsword at the side of his hip and a flowing crimson cape fastened on his back.

Voice: Victor has a strangely matter-of-fact voice, never letting his sentiments expand into his intonation as he utters fluently and clearly. But he does sound quite gruff and low.

Scent: In and out of armour Victor reeks the same; metallic and sweaty.

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Persona: Victor is stoic, yes, but that is the most common trait a steadfast and honourable cavalier has. Through the bloodshed and the skirmishes, Victor has built a barrier between his sentiments, countenances and even gestures that would demonstrate his emotions. He’s barricaded, through and through. He takes his duties, his status and his purpose to protect and serve earnestly, he’s difficult to bend, to make submit and even get a mere chortle out of his gut. You’ll be met with a pair of deep-set eyes and a guttural hum if you endeavour because he will meander from you and return to his position like nothing has ever happened. However, if you’re a superior, graced with an upper status, Victor will be considerably respectful and observant of you. He will comply and serve if necessary. But otherwise, Victor is solely fixated on his employment and shall deliver justice to the sinful realm.

Virtues: Honor, Loyalty, Courage, Discipline

Values: Justice, Duty, Camaraderie, Chivalry

Flaws: Workaholic, Aloofness, Fear of Vulnerability, Stubbornness

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Allies: His mentor and many more

Enemies/Rivals: Deceased

Romantic Interest(s): N/A

Brood: Mother; Evelyn | Father; Edmund | No kins

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Unique Traits: Believe it or not, he’s an excellent horseman; adores his stallion like a sailor cherishes his vessel.

Quotes: “Let the blade say when words cannot.” ; “Honor is a gift; it is earned, not given.”

Kynon " The Mighty " Gynonale

Nickname(s): Doesn't have one.

Age: Tieflings and Humans share the same age requirements, although some say Tieflings mature around the age of 60. By the old book. He's 23 years old.

Rank(s): King/Ruler

Gender: Male Tiefling

Sex: Gay, but doesn't mind entertaining females

Race/Species: Male Tiefling

Height: 5'9

**Build: Kynon is a lean and firm male Tiefling, standing tall with a distinctive presence. His skin has a unique hue that shifts between light and dark blue. Bright yellow eyes, reminiscent of molten gold, stand out strikingly against his skin. Taking after his mother, he also has a striking and warm smile placed on his sharp canines. Tieflings usually use those canines to tear things, Kynon just uses them to flirt.

His most formidable feature is his tail, which is as long as a rope and serves as both a weapon and a means of expression. Remarkably strong, Kynon can lift and maneuver it effortlessly, using its movements to enhance his communication, especially when his emotions run high. Despite its weight—often more than his own body—he wields it with the grace of a dancer. Kynon's tail tends to be his greatest foe, exposing his nervous emotions and shy intentions; if engaged in a flirty way, his tail will lash and twitch as though it--itself was in its own thoughts

Kynon's physique is lightly toned, giving him an appearance of softness that contrasts with his formidable traits. A scar runs across his left eye, a reminder of past battles, and his pointed ears add to his demonic allure. His dark, twisted horns, larger than those of any other male Tiefling, add an imposing element to his silhouette. These horns are a family legacy, inherited from his mother, whose lineage is known for their impressive horn size; her father was said to have the largest in the family.

Voice: Kynon's voice is soft, although when he's angry, it can deepen, almost sounding demonic.

Scent: Kynon scent consists of pie, blueberries, and green apples

Persona: Kynon, known as "The Mighty," brings a refreshing playfulness to his role as king. He’s often seen darting through the grand hallways of his castle, laughter echoing off the stone walls as he sneaks up on his guards and playfully yanks their capes or sets up harmless pranks that leave everyone in stitches. As a young Tiefling, Kynon always showed great youth in his actions. Sure he annoys a lot of people in the Kingdom but as he grew older that youth never went away. His lighthearted nature fosters a connection among his subjects, leaving behind the weighty responsibilities of kingship for moments of joy. Creating an atmosphere where even the most serious attendants can't help but smile.

Playful || Harmless || Kynon weilds strong fire magic|| Can have some outburst of anger|| Flirty || Humor || Bored of Kingly duties || Gets distracted easily

Romantic Interest(s): N/A

Family: Unknown. Although everyone knows what his mother " used" to be before she went on her Tiefling trials, she never returned.

The district was boisterous, full and vibrant. The air smelt of smoke from the scattered campfires and carried the rich aroma of spiced meats roasting over coals. Markets lined the empire’s walls, merchants roaring over the noise to sell bolts of fabric, unfamiliar herbs, or handmade trinkets. Victor observed it, though inwardly he felt a twinge of familiarity, a pull that reminded him of simpler times. Home. After a gruelling mission that had drawn him away from these comforts for what felt like a lifetime, the sight was grounding, the warmth of the assemblage inviting. His stallion’s hooves resonated against the cobbled street as he ushered it unhurriedly through the throngs, the people parting just enough to let him pass. There was something in the air, a hum of stability amid the disarray, and he allowed himself a moment to take it in. This place, for all its noise and bustling liveliness, felt steady and certain—a reminder of what he guarded.

As he tugged the rein of his steed, Victor dismounted, patting his stallion’s thickset neck, letting his hand rest there a moment longer. “Tha’s a good lad, Galen,” he murmured, his voice hardly audible over the populace. The steed flicked a lobe back as if listening, its enormous, delicate eyes monitoring its rider with what could almost be called understanding. Galen had been his steadfast companion for countless battles, courageous even in the face of oncoming arrows, and had borne him home when others had not.

But as Victor shifted the strap of his sword, the weight was familiar and reassuring at his side. He glanced around at the mass. Smallish children darted between the cubicles, their chortles merry and clear against the din. He scrutinized them a moment longer than he’d meant to, a pang of sentimentality slinking up on him, obscure but undeniable. There had been a time when he’d been no different from those juveniles, once filled with laughter and innocence before life had carved him into the man he was now.

Ushering his equine toward a more tranquil passage, leading it to a small water trough. Galen decreased its cranium to quench its throat, Victor removed his gauntlet, flexing his hand as he reached for his canteen.

His callous fingers hurt, the muscles straining beneath the layers of clothes and armour as his parched lips engulfed the neck of the canteen, water filling his torrid mouth. Victor allowed himself a deep breath as he sipped, feeling the cold water chase away some of the fatigue from his odyssey. His hand rested against Galen’s bristling mane, taking consolation in the steed's quiet resilience. Every scar he bore, every nightfall spent under blackened skies in the hostile domain, felt distant here. And Victor hoped, no more missions would be said from the King.