✧

❝

I want to be soft, to say here is my underbelly and I want you to hold the knife, but I don’t know what I want you to do: plunge or mercy.

❞

( clenched hands, trembling fingers hidden in the folds of your robe. ) you have known your exact place in life, down to the exact worth of the marrow in your bones. ( raise your head up high, little bird; the court circles your heels, jeweled fans hiding honeyed words. ) darling boy, there is nothing in this world that you can keep safe,because your family has named you a hymn and a myth and a symbol of hope—and in doing so, they have stripped you of everything else. you never wanted to be anything but a boy-thing, ( head buried in the arms of your mother, the only person who has ever seen you past the gold and glitter ) but there is no such thing as choice in front of the crown—in front of your father.... you have forgotten what it means—what hope means, in the face of utter despair; your entire life has led up to this moment: the death of your father and the passing of a legacy too-heavy for your shoulders to bear,but bear it you must. this is your duty, boy. this is the full measure of your worth; all that you are, now, is herald to the new age.

you thought you had more time to mourn; you thought that you still had time to shed your tears, but power waits for no one—not even sons. especially not for boys like you, with your too-old eyes and the love you hold underneath your tongue.( you love this jagged mess of a crown, this beast with its maw opened wide enough to swallow the world whole. you love it enough to drown yourself: inheritance and war are nothing if not terrible, but your dreams are big and your hands are so small—small enough to hold a heart, small enough to remember the warmth of a gentle touch, )you will never admit it: a part of you wants to run, to travel the wide world and,( there is nothing here for you, summer-love. )if there is no space for you, then you will have to claw one out. it’s your birthright, and—if nothing else, your people deserve the sun.

muse and mun are both 21+ ! due to the nature of this character & the themes that this character plays with, please be 21+ at minimum.

general writing and roleplay etiquette apply. ooc does not equal ic ! the opinions and actions of my character do not correlate with my own views. noël as a character deals with themes of manipulation, obsession, and corruption; discretion advised.

you have my permission to harm my character however you'd like, so long as there is no godmodding or metagaming involved ! in fact, acts of violence are welcome.

feel free to ask for my code ! noël is very heavily glamoured in public areas outside of ishgard as an au'ra, seen as he would be without being synced. what he looks like synced with the code is what he would look like underneath the glamour.

always a yes to pre-established relationships, long-form roleplay, and questlines + campaigns ! always feel free to hit me up if you see me hanging around somewhere !

i'm quite fond of continuous & plotted roleplay—if you're interested in a particular hook or have an interest in making a connection with noël, the delacroix, or the tributary faith, please let me know !

― eyes

heaven's-blue eyes framed with gently curled lashes and marked by a tender brow. a pious glimmer to the pale, as if nothing matters more in this very moment than your reflection in his gaze. ardent and soft; a pretty flush marking the corners of eyes and just at slender ear-tips.round, dark pupils; eyelashes drooping affectionately. slow blinks and slower to cast his gaze from yours, as if reluctant to glance away.

― mirror

golden, sunlit hair & a soft, tender smile. too-blue eyes underneath heavy lashes—prone to reddening corners & fleeting tears. slightly wavy locks that gently curl around his ears & forehead—a beauty mark underneath the corner of his rose-red mouth.a crimson tattoo ( in the shape of an abstract sun ) at the nape of his neck, with strange symbols and stars etched into his skin. lean & lithe; slender shoulders & pale throat.

― mouth

soft mouth and slender jaw; full lips and the faintest hint of glitter at the swell of cupid's bow. lifted corners, as if a perpetual smile is held within. rose-red, inked with a single beauty mark underneath.voice a light, gentle tenor; accented Common lilting from tongue. names always drawn between teeth, as if to dissect the meaning. vocally emotive, despite himself.

holds a monstrous desire; a greed to eat the world raw. that he could break his jaw trying to swallow it down, that he would sink his teeth into the bloody pith of the wound. spent too much of his early years trying to stave it off, and it has only grown—now he keeps it under a tight lock and key, a tenuous truce with his own starving want.

touchstarved, and desperately ( hideously ) so. starved of a gentle hand to head, starved of anything resembling tenderness, and therefore utterly ashamed of the need that crawls within him. craves it like a bad high; knows that his body commands it like an addiction, and thus he deprives himself of it even further.

control freak. needs to keep everything within his sphere of influence within his palm; an almost feverish intensity directed to those whom he calls his. obsessive and possessive of things—of people he names as his. will dedicate to them the best of what he is able to give; will do all that he can to keep them—to keep them safe. dead or alive.

the tiny little scars at the tips of his fingers are from his youth; deprived of sweets, and given them only by reason of a test, the rabid want almost subsumed him whole from the moment his mouth touched frosting. he almost gnawed off his own fingers because he couldn't distinguish between his hands and the cakes before him when they were between his teeth.... he's better about it, now.

( lashes flutter over too-pale blue. ) it would depend on the options given. ( crescent flash of teeth, fingertips touching as hands clasp. ) … the answer you’re looking for is this: i’d die in my bed, ( voice as soft as oriole-song, flicker of sigh wetting lips ) during a dream with no end. my hands would be unmarked and folded over my chest, ( mirroring words, the placement of palms to heart ) and i’d wait for the kiss of a prince.( a flash of teeth. lashes lower. ) but i think i’ll die with a sword in my hand.

the former. ( not even a breath of hesitation. )

( quirked brow. curve of too-pretty smile. ) are you truly alive if the answer is no?

people would know. ( pale-blue glance towards side. wry amusement and tilt of head. ) let’s not pretend otherwise.

those who are friends,

and those who are foes.

issk'ir delacroix

kin

found during the dragonsong war; saw something familiar in him, and took him in out of a moment of weakness. will stick by his decision.

• carrd

v'yseria

blooded knight

red right hand, the knife that threatens the dark. holds a mutual understanding, the two of them similar monsters. they work well together.

• npc

reu e'lias

spy

knows vaguely of ravensgate and the great dark that's spun between their webs. they are useful to each other, and that is all.

• carrd

zero

sky pirate

has commissioned the dreadwyrm crew many times to find things for him. they know of each other, and he is one of their favourite patrons.

• carrd

― I.

in his oldest memories—the ones that ebb and flow as the river—he remembers begging and scraping and praying for even a scrap of love. ( a stray, wayward smile. a touch of hand to head. he would've been a dog for it—for a word of concern, for the warmth that he's seen fathers give to other sons. that he's seen his father give to other sons. )in his oldest memories, he remembers his father's words: love, noël, is a threat. a tool, only to be used to further your own ends. do not sink into it, boy, for it will crash over your head like the waves you are ever so fond of. it wasn't that he was undeserving of love, really, but that he needed to learn how to control it.or so he believed.a child weaned on poison—a boy weaned on the knowledge that he will kill his kin one day ( his father told him, winter-storm eyes held fast to the grand portrait of their legacy, that the butler who'd held him up high just last night was pronounced dead. there was poison found underneath his fingernails, his father said, detached. it's probable that he wanted to kill you. if you died, his father hums, he would have become the heir. ), will only understand hurt as honey.and such was the law in the house of the delacroix; the heir must need to be the deadliest poison.the world turns, and day becomes night.

― II.

his father gives him things. presents, lessons, books. pets. tells him that these are his, now, and that he needs to learn to take care of them—for the heir must give the things that he owns the best of what he can give them. in this way, his father tells him, they will be unable to live without you. in this way, your hands, taking noël's delicate hands up with the shift of his blade, will pinch the lifeline at the backs of their necks.his father tells him this: love is control, noël. though you can give them the moon and stars, the things you own must understand that you can take these away just as easily.but his mother—his mother smooths a gentle hand across his golden curls. his mother's eyes dew with tears whenever noël has one of his coughing fits, whenever noël's handkerchiefs are pressed to his mouth and come away tainted red, whenever noël comes to her in the morning and presses his face into her skirts, an ache in his throat for something he cannot name.his mother sings like a songbird greeting the dawn; and he loves his mother, but not in the way his father says he should love her. he could never imagine taking the sun away from her—could never imagine binding her wings and pressing a blade to her throat.his father knows this. your mother is soft, he says, during one of his gentler moments. oh. oh, his father smiles a smile that noël has never seen before ( it is the ache of something precious, the desperation of losing—and this tenderness is what causes noël to weep for the very last time ).

― III.

desperation, to a delacroix, is unseemly. he has never seen it on his father. not until this very moment, with his father's head bowed against his mother's body—his mother's body held limp in his arms. his father's eyes are red-rimmed; his father's voice is hoarse, a dangerous stillness to the way he lifts his winter-storm eyes. an animal, even, licking its own wounds—licking the fur of a long-dead thing in hopes of warming it up.his mother's head lolls on her neck, an ugly red gash marring her slender throat; noël is stunned, as if in a waking nightmare. the sob that draws out from his father's throat is animalistic; his father buries his face into his mother's shoulder, weeping.noël can feel the tip of his nose tingling. noël can feel the burning sensation that rises to his eye-sockets; he leaves his father with the body of his mother.oh.( he loves—loved her so much that his breaths come out as gasps, a keening whine held dizzy beneath his ribs. he presses his palms to his eyes, digging into hollows hard enough to see starbursts, the world unsteady beneath his feet. he feels like parchment—like the slightest thing could puncture his shaky composure & he would pop right then & there, scattering across the marbled ground like millions of snowflakes. )he sinks down to his knees. he does not cry.

― IV.

it is heartbreak that kills his father. the days pass, and his father is the same as before. ( noël is the only one that can see the way he withers away, the spark of ambition that his mother once praised so highly now flickering. )a day before his father dies, his father calls him into his office. the portrait of his mother stares at them from above the fireplace, her mouth curved into that tender smile. ( noël has her eyes. her lips. her nose. every time he looks into the mirror, there is a strange grief. )your position is tenuous, his father says, exhaustion lining his brows. you must not let those starving things, by this, his father means their kin, tear you apart. his father looks at him straight in the eyes—the first time in a very long time—and those winter-storm eyes soften infinitesimally. his father reaches out—presses a hand against his—and noël chokes down the sinking feeling in his stomach. the heat of his father's palm is like firelight—violently branding him inside and out.you must live, noël, his father says, winter-storm gaze drifting to the portrait of his mother. noël's breaths come out as a harsh sob, but his cheeks remain dry; he grits his teeth, desperation lining his bones as he waits for his father's final sentence. if not for yourself, then for your mother. for her legacy.... his father blesses him with a curse.the next day, the delacroix patriarch is found dead.

his father dies, and the delacroix crown is eyed by the hungry hounds that circle its throne—reeking of starvation, reeking of desperation and madness, and noël is given no time to mourn.there is a crown to keep and monsters to keep at bay; there is the duty that weighs heavy on his slender shoulders and two coffins to lay to rest.

noël is swept into the dance that is ishgardian politics; knives are sharp, but words are sharper. rumours abound about the new heir's youth, about the way his soft hands don't even look fit to hold a blade.he smiles. the next month, a gala births new rumours: another family, destroyed by an already fraught marriage. how shameful. those who understand glance towards the delacroix heir.

there is never a moment of rest. there are rats to cull, pests to ruin, and his oath to his father to fulfill. in the coming years, the entire House will be preparing for the choosing ceremony: noël cannot fail here.he has promised.

if you're a teacher,

you may have tutored him—or you are currently tutoring him in various subjects. careful: though he pays well, you are always at risk of being dragged into his family politics.

if you're well-skilled in combat,

noël is always looking for capable talent to provide their services as a bodyguard or as a combat tutor.

if you're an information broker,

noël has coin and a liking for all sorts of rumours and bounties. as long as it may be of use, then he will have a trade for you.

if you're of the underworld,

he will pay nicely to hire you for various jobs and ties to events; the delacroix family holds old ties to the criminal underground, and though nowadays they hide it well, it's still a good way to strike a deal and make sure each of you get what you want.

if you're of the aristocracy,

you may have heard rumours of house delacroix; that their late patriarch has died, pushing forward their secretive choosing ceremony. perhaps you even have a stake in the matter.

if you're a merchant,

the current proxy heir of the delacroix family will pay very well for all sorts of sundries. you might even have a contract with the house.

if you're familiar with ishgardian nobility,

the name delacroix might come across as familiar; you might even have something to ask of them: a favour for a favour, especially regarding their grand galas.

if you're a knight,

you may have encountered the knights of house delacroix during the dragonsong war or have been a recipient of their charity.