#ihsahn.

general details;

ꜰᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: ihsahn erebos draven ɴɪᴄᴋɴᴀᴍᴇ(ꜱ): sahn, among close friends. ihsa, for only a select few. ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ: ihsahn (masc) meaning ‘carrier of the light/gift’ / erebos meaning 'darkness' ᴀɢᴇ: 36 / 360 ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ: november 12th (scorpio sun, aries moon, sagittarius rising ) ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ: illyrian war camp. ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴇꜱ: high fae / illyrian ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ: cismale ᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴꜱ: he/him ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: heterosexual ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: heteroromantic ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ: married to high lady seraphina draven nee galathenea, the evenstar ᴏᴄᴄᴜᴘᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: high lord of night court ᴇᴅᴜᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ihsahn's education as a prince of the night court was denied to him. instead, he was sent to the illyrian war camps at a young age. what education he received was of violence, survival, brutality, and bitterness. unexpectedly, over time, he also learned brotherhood and how to lead. upon returning to the night court, he has requested private tutelage from his inner circle's scholar. the basics were difficult for him on the outset, but he has learned in spite of his disadvantages and shows a knack for retaining detail and discovered a love of reading and writing.

physical appearance, etc.;

ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄᴄᴇɴᴛ: ihsahn's voice is low and velvety when speaking in normal tones. he can sound harsh and demanding, if needed, but it's a rare thing to hear. ꜰᴀᴄᴇᴄʟᴀɪᴍ: şükrü özyıldız ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: dark hair with a slight wave that grows just below his earlobes. it's often worn slicked-back or tied in a knot atop his head. ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ: rich, mahogany brown in the light, almost black. ᴇʏᴇꜱɪɢʜᴛ: keen. ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛ: 6'2" ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ: 205lbs. ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ: lean and muscled; the body of an illyrian warrior who trains daily. ᴛᴀᴛᴛᴏᴏꜱ: illyrian tattoos that swirl across his abdomen, back, shoulders, and up to his neck. ᴄʟᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: recently, he has begun to wear clothing fit for a high lord, though there are always additions that call back to his illyrian roots — belts and leathers, clothing that does not limit movement or leave him to exposed. ᴅɪꜱᴛɪɴɢᴜɪꜱʜɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀɪꜱᴛɪᴄꜱ: a scar that starts above is left eyebrow and travels down his left cheek. a scar beneath his left ribs. ꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ: vetiver, leather, and spice.

personality;

ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛꜱ: disarming, curious, generous, devoted, dauntless, honest, witty, valiant, vigilant, tireless, steadfast, loyal ɴᴇɢᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛꜱ: vengeful, stubborn, prone to detachment, impatient, overprotective, tempestuous, sharp-tongued, critical, sometimes reticent, unforgiving ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ: games of strategy and skill, honesty, training, sparring, learning new things, reading & writing, appreciates art and elegance (something previously foreign to him), building things (carpentry & stonemasonry) ᴅɪꜱʟɪᴋᴇꜱ: court politics & intrigue, dishonesty, deception, judgmental people, ego, being unable to protect his family from unpredictable threats, false manners, irrelevant traditions and rules, feeling idle or underutilized ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ: harm coming to his wife & child, losing himself while adapting to his new world, being betrayed ᴍᴏʀᴀʟ ᴀʟɪɢɴᴍᴇɴᴛ: neutral good ᴇʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ: air & fire ʙᴇᴠᴇʀᴀɢᴇ: spiced rum & black teas with citrus ꜰᴏᴏᴅ: sweet-tooth, loves baked confections - cookies, cakes, pies, and spicy savory foods

headcanons and/or backstory; — tw: —

— you are a bastard. it is the mantle you wear from infancy, and it is a heavy weave of switches and barbs, lined with resentment, laden with lost hope. to the wolves of the illyrian mountains, you are cast from moonstone and enchantment, and to them, you are not just a bastard, but a noble one. with rich vermillion magic thrumming in your bones: you are composed of shadows and storms, not of the wintry bitterness that borne them. for that, you are worthy of derision, belittlement, hatred, and scorn from your winged brothers. they will never make it easy for you, but for that, you will one day thank them.

— centuries spent in the treacherous mountains teach you resolve, self-resilience, and strength, and that bitter place in your belly where the pain of abandonment pulses pushes you to exceed every expectation, to strike down every threat, to become a mix of iron and steel. when your burgeoning magic begins to grow, you become a force among the aerial army that casts shadows and humbles your rivals. your lone win of the bloodrite cements your claim as one of the best their rank have seen, and it is a slow, begrudging thing, but eventually, they accept you and name you one of them.

— your magic sets you apart from those around you in the warcamps that are your home, and it does so once more when you are named high lord of night court. it is a title you don't want, a burden you refuse to carry, and you rail against it with everything you have. never will you serve the court that abandoned you, never will you marry a stranger, never will you be beholden to the expectations of a people who would disown you from such lofty heights.

— it is slow, the accepting of one's own fate. the understanding of your true nature. like most things, it comes to you in a dream — not a vision, but a flourish of shadows unraveling to reveal a corrupted world, a gutted night court with an empty throne. perhaps you've always known that you would wind up here, surrounded by a foreign world once denied outright. but the warcamps are not enough. they don't offer more. and prythian and the continents that spread beyond call you. your birthrite calls you, just as ramiel's distant peak once had.

— you are defiant, at first, determined not to fit in this small, glittering city under the stars. protected, warm, safe, nourished. the woman you are to wed cannot stand the nearness of you, and the expectations are beyond your abilities. when the darkness of self-doubt sweeps in, it holds you for a decade or more. you are a savage thing who doesn't belong, a warrior at the helm of a glorious, cultured court, renowned for its charm and elegance. then it happens, something you don't expect: you begin to care for another, and by extension, for your court, for the fae that spend their lives in it. for the little valley that holds velaris tight.