by the grace of the gods, old and new, I present to you LORD LEANDER TARMONT of TARMONT within the lands of MEDES. the gods have blessed us with their presence for 37 years. many know them to be CHARISMATIC, WITTY, DOGMATIC, and while it is not always shown, it is said they can also be GREEDY, EGOTISTICAL, SELF RIGHTEOUS. what will their tale in the story of metia be? only they can write it, so let's see how their legend unfolds.
basics
full name: Leander Tarmont title: Lord of Tarmont epithets:  Drowned Lord, Speaker of the Deep, Salt Kissed, Black Tide, Ythulo's Hand, Lord of Bastards, Sea Father, Father of the Drowned, Father of Many, Butcher of Blood and Brine, Leviathan's Chosen, He With as Many Titles as There are Ways to Die. age: thirty-seven birthplace: tarmont, medes gender + pronouns: cis male, he/him years of service: 12 years kinks: antikinks:
appearance
With a presence that commands attention, Leander is the bridge between the mortality of Medes and the rites of the divine. Standing at an imposing 6â4â, his frame is one of strength honed through years of both indulgence and discipline. His skin is a deep, rich brown, kissed by the Medesi sun and weathered slightly by salt air. His build is powerful, sculpted with the precision of a warrior-priest, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, though not lacking the grace that comes with years of carrying both blade and leadership.
Leanderâs face is striking - sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline befitting his noble blood, full lips that often curl into an amused smirk or a knowing smile, betraying the ever-calculating wit that plays behind his dark eyes. The scent of clove, salt, and something faintly metallic always lingers around him, as if blood and incense have seeped into his very skin over years of sacred rites and sacrifice.
Most striking of all are the tattoos that mark his body, each one a declaration of faith and power. His arms and chest are inked in intricate, swirling patterns with interwoven lines telling the stories of his houseâs service to the Drowned Gods. Upon his back, a massive depiction of Ythulo, the great drowned god, looms in dark ink - tentacles stretching across his shoulder blades, as if the god itself clings to him. Along his ribs are glyphs representing Afaâs storms, warning of the destruction that comes with defying the divine. On his right forearm, a serpent-like creature wraps around his skin, an ancient symbol of the cycle of sacrifice and renewal. His hands, elegant yet calloused from years of wielding both blade and ritual dagger, often bear traces of dried ink and ceremonial oils.
persona
Leander is, a paradox wrapped in charm and conviction. He possesses an undeniable charisma, a presence that draws others to him like sailors to a sirenâs song. His words are smooth, deliberate, and laced with a sharp wit that can either disarm or eviscerate depending on his mood. A natural leader, he understands the weight of his station and wears it with effortless confidence - his faith, his name, and his bloodline shaping his every decision. Beneath the easy smiles and well-spoken grace, there is an unshakable dogmatism, an unrelenting belief in the righteousness of his path. He sees himself as a man of purpose, chosen by the Drowned Gods to carry out their will, and while others may view his rituals as archaic, even monstrous, he remains steadfast. He does not bend; he does not waver. Those who stand in his way are either enlightened, drowned, or forgotten.
For all his conviction, Leander is not without his indulgences. He enjoys pleasure, excess, and the power that comes with them. He is known for his insatiable appetites - whether for food, drink, or intimacy - relishing in the richness of life even as he claims to serve forces greater than himself. He is a man who laughs easily, enjoys a clever jest, and often wields humor as both a weapon and a shield. His egotism is not easily concealed, nor does he make any great effort to suppress it. He believes in his own greatness, in the divine right of his house, and in the notion that power is meant to be taken, not given. He can be manipulative, knowing exactly how to play people - whether through charm, intimidation, or faith - but to those he truly values, his loyalty is unwavering. His bastards, his warriors, his inner circle - they are not mere pawns to him. They are his legacy, his flesh and blood.
Despite his love for excess, there is a part of Leander that remains ruthlessly pragmatic. He is no mere zealot, blindly following doctrine - he is a strategist, keenly aware of politics, power, and perception. He knows how to balance fear and devotion, when to offer blood to the gods and when to offer silver to the crown. He does not waste his time with weak men who claim piety but lack the will to act. He respects strength, cunning, and those who can look into the abyss without flinching. If the gods are watching, Leander will make sure they never look away.
sexual
Sex is indulgence and dominance, pleasure and power that Leander refuses to approach with shame or restraint. He embraces his sexuality with the same conviction he brings to every aspect of his life - bold, unapologetic, and entirely his own. He sees no conflict between his carnal desires and his faith; if anything, he views passion as an offering to the Drowned Gods, a way to honor the flesh they have given him. Love, lust, and legacy are all intertwined in his mind, and he sees no reason to deny himself or others the pleasures of the body. His attraction to men is not a secret nor something to be hidden - it is as natural as the tide, as unquestioned as the waves that shape the shores of Medes.
In relationships, Leander is possessive but not exclusive. He does not believe in the rigid bonds of monogamy, nor does he ask for them from his lovers. His affection is freely given, but his favor is earned, and those who stand beside him must prove their worth. Loyalty matters more to him than fidelity, and betrayal - whether of trust, of house, or of belief - is something he does not forgive easily. He enjoys the game of courtship, the push and pull of attraction laced with challenge, and he has no patience for those who shy away from intensity. His bastards, though many, are not nameless mistakes to him - they are his blood, his legacy, and he does not abandon what he has created.
folklore
tw: murder, violence, occult practices. Leander has upheld the legacy of House Tarmont since his childhood hours. Its legacy - a legacy drenched in salt, blood, and unshaken devotion to the Drowned Gods.
His father, Lord Maron Tarmont, was much like him - ruthless, cunning, and a devout servant of Ythulo. The Tarmonts have ruled for generations through blood and sacrifice, and Maron had ensured his house remained both feared and revered. But the gods are cruel, and time is relentless. Maron grew ill, his once-imposing frame reduced to a husk, his breath heavy with the scent of the sea even as he lay in bed. It was not sickness that would claim him, but his own son, as had always been intended.
The ceremony of ascension is ancient, whispered of in legend but rarely seen by outsiders. A dying lord was not meant to rot away in his chambers like a commoner - he was to be given to the gods. On the night of Leanderâs rise, the waves roared against Tarmontâs cliffs, and the crypts beneath the great pyramid filled with the sound of drums, the voices of devotees chanting in the old tongue. The air was thick, the scent of burning myrrh mingling with the dampness of the tombs. Leander, clad in ceremonial robes, stood over his father as he knelt before the stone altar of Ythulo, the carvings of tentacled limbs wrapping around its sides.
Maronâs gaze, still sharp despite his frailty, met his sonâs. There was no fear, only expectation.
With a blade forged in seawater and cooled in blood, Leander slit his fatherâs throat and let the life spill from him like a tide receding from the shore. His father gurgled a final prayer as his blood soaked into the altar, and in that moment, Leander became Lord of Tarmont. The attendants chanted his name, and outside, the storm swelled - the sea taking what had been promised. The body was wrapped in ceremonial cloth, weighed down with black stones, and cast into the tides, where it was said Ythulo would devour his flesh and drink his soul. Leander did not mourn. His father had been a great man, and a great man deserved to be sacrificed.
religion
The Tarmonts are not merely lords - they are priests and harbingers of the Drowned Godsâ will. Their rites are old, predating even the Iua, whispered from generation to generation, passed down through blood rather than parchment.
The most sacred sacrifice to Ythulo is drowning. A life given to the sea strengthens the god, feeding his slumbering form in the depths. Criminals, prisoners, or those chosen through prophecy are bound and cast into the black waters, their lungs filling with seawater as the priests sing hymns to the deep. It is believed that the truly faithful do not struggle - they let the sea take them, knowing they will awaken in Ythuloâs embrace. Leander, like his father before him, has drowned many.
During eclipses, when the seas are strongest, the Tarmonts perform bloodletting rituals. The high priests, sometimes Leander himself, carve intricate patterns into the skin of the willing - a rite seen as a great honor - and mirroring the designs of their ancestorsâ tombs. Blood is then mixed with seawater and drunk as a form of communion, binding the worshipers to Ythuloâs will. This practice is believed to grant visions - whispers from the deep, glimpses of what lies beneath the waves.
Leander has fathered over fifty bastards, but none of these children are accidents - they are offerings. The Drowned Gods favor strong bloodlines, and Leander sees his own seed as sacred. His children are raised within Tarmont, trained as warriors, priests, or sailors, each bound by blood and salt to the faith. Some are even marked at birth, their foreheads anointed with seawater mixed with Leanderâs own blood, binding them to the gods before they can even walk.
