raidervalen

[raidervalen]

THE REMNANT

BIOGRAPHY ༒︎ SKELETON ༒︎ PINTEREST ༒︎ PORTRAITS

[raidervalen]

who: open to all when: present day where: the hanged man

Valen had no interest in fighting. Yet here he was, cornered at his favourite tavern by a slab of a man who smelled like sweat and sour ale. “I don’t like your face,” the brute grunted.

Valen sighed, nursing his drink. “Tragic. I was really starting to like yours.”

That earned him a shove, and raucous laughter erupted behind them. Rum-swilling regulars clambered for a view of the spectacle, rattling the low-hanging lanterns and hollering for a good, old fashioned brawl. When a second man joined the fray, Valen barely shifted. His ability stirred, potential outcomes flashing through his mind. If he stayed still, a fist to the jaw. If he leaned left, a tankard to the skull. But if he timed it right… Valen shifted and knuckles slammed into glass, splitting skin to the bone.

The bastards howled, and Valen danced between their attacks, anticipating where each move would take him. The first brute huffed like a bull, but his punches were slow. A misstep here, a stumble there, and Valen struck. A jab to the throat and a sweep of the leg sent him sprawling to the sticky floorboards. The second man lunged, his flayed skin raining blood, but Valen was already moving. A well-placed elbow to his temple and the fight was over before it really started.

The crowd roared and Valen exhaled, smoothing down his coat. When someone slapped him on the back, his jaw tightened. He'd had enough excitement for one night. "Do you want to be next?"

[raidervalen]

☠︎︎ OVERVIEW

Name: Valen Elenweyr Gender/Pronouns: Cismale, he/him Birth/Age: December 10 2994 - 30 years old Birthplace: Lórien’dal Species: Silver Elvhen Faction: Raiders of the Veiled Sea Parents: Keara (deceased) & Aldric Elenweyr Companion: Nil Home: Lórien’dal/Caribella Occupation: Cartographer & Pirate

☠︎︎ PHYSIQUE 

Height: 180cm Eye Color: Golden brown Hair Color: Brown Aesthetic: Pinterest Face-claim: Orlando Bloom

☠︎︎ HISTORY  trigger warnings: blood, childbirth, death, murder, possession

Blood pooled beneath Keara, soaking the sheets and dripping through the stone cracks below. The midwives worked in grim silence, their hands steady but their eyes darting between her ravaged body and the child she’d torn into the world. Pale as dawn, he lay in his father’s arms, his tiny chest still. Aldric clutched them both, his soulbond fraying with each passing second. 

When Keara’s lips parted, exhaling a final breath, Valen took his first.

The Silver Elvhen carried grief like an heirloom, passed from one generation to the next. The branch the Elenweyr matriarch hailed from was one of the first to fall from the Great Tree, and when she fell, Lórien’dal wept. Bone-haired watchers raised their voices in mournful song to the Laurelin, their lament weaving through the olive groves. From the city’s peak, hundreds of lanterns were released, their glow reflected in tear-brimmed eyes as they rained like falling stars into the Silverlands.

Valen grew beneath the weight of their sorrow. His tutors spoke in deliberate tones, as though their words alone could shape him into something worthy of Keara’s memory. By day, he studied diplomacy and history, reciting the lessons expected of an heir. But when the candles burned low, and the court’s hum faded to a distant murmur, his thoughts strayed. His ink-stained fingers traced distant coastlines, memorising trade routes and laws that governed foreign streets. He mapped the world beyond Lórien’dal, where the burden of his guilt might be forgotten.  

When whispers of unrest from the Northern borders grew louder, Valen answered the call to investigate. Eyes flicked toward him, a beat of disbelief hanging in the chamber before the elders’ voices clashed with protest. He was still young, still learning. Aldric’s refusal was the loudest, his voice heavy with fear, but his son was adamant. 

As Valen prepared to leave, another voice halted his steps. His oldest friend moved close, her fingers wrapping over muscle that’d long outgrown her grasp. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she whispered, her grip tightening. “Not like this.” But to Valen, it was fate. He pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of her head, let her hand slip away, and stepped into the waiting dark.

Frost-laden earth crunched beneath his boots and the cove’s chill quickly pierced his new leathers. For the first time, doubt gnawed at him. The blade at his hip had always felt like an extension of himself, every movement honed to instinct, but the Feywilds were no training ground. Days blurred into weeks, and when the truth finally revealed itself, it struck like hot iron against his worn flesh. 

Before he could send a warning, something cold slithered into Valen's mind. Reality snapped, one thread after another, until his vision narrowed to the glint of steel. A lone figure emerged from the shore, seeking the noble’s aid. Valen’s grip tightened around his hilt, and the sword rose without consent, meeting the stranger’s weapon in a clash that echoed across the water. Valen staggered, his arms shaking with the effort to resist, but the enchantment coiled tighter, dragging him like a puppet.

“I don’t want this,” he rasped. The stranger’s sword swung wildly, but his blade glanced off Valen's in another clang.

Stop!

The thought echoed in his mind, but with Elvhen precision, he disarmed the man in a single motion. A cry tore from his lips as he crumpled, clutching the bloodied stump of his wrist. Behind them, Blackrock’s jagged peaks tore through the clouds, their molten breath painting the sky in hues of crimson and black. Wind howled past him, creating a vortex of smoke and ash, and shrieking laughter erupted in the haze. The fae’s voice dug into Valen’s skull, burrowing deeper until it drowned out the screams.

Then, silence.

Valen stood in the clearing, his chest heaving. His blade hung limply at his side, while the stranger’s lifeless eyes stared blankly at the heavens. Behind them, a fishing vessel swayed at the water’s edge, indifferent to the fate of its captain.

Gripping his sword, Valen drove it into the frozen earth. Each breath was a battle against bile rising in his throat, but when the hole was deep enough, he laid the man gently inside. He arranged his battered cloak to shield him, murmuring words of penance before covering the grave. He lingered, the cold seeping into his marrow until his limbs stiffened. Only when his legs threatened to give out did they drag him to the boat.

Valen collapsed onto the rickety desk, ink splattering as his quill struck parchment. Father, I lost control. The jagged words bled through the page. He clenched the nib tighter, as if the force alone would still his shaking hand. I let them in.

With a sharp breath, he crushed the letter in his fist and hurled it into waves. Valen steadied himself and began again. The second letter detailed his findings at the border. It was concise and neat—the report of a man in control. He wrote of adventure, of honing his mind, of travelling across Taravell before returning to claim his mother’s seat. For centuries, his family’s word had been law in Lórien’dal. If he was to stand among them, he could never falter again.

As a child, Valen grew up hearing tales of a lawless island in the middle of the ocean. Caribella sounded like a haven, where rogues and misfits collided with legends in mead-drenched taverns. Its port welcomed those with nothing to lose, and the Raiders of the Veiled Sea ruled it with ruthless abandon. Valen never thought he’d count himself among them, until he became a fugitive.

Joining the Raiders wasn’t a question of redemption; it was a test of wit and will. His unlikely skill at the mast earned him an introduction, but accusations of espionage flew at him like daggers on his first night aboard a real ship. The Elvhen blood in his veins granted him the gift of sensing the odds of any action, like reading the future in smoke. In that moment, he knew how far he could push the situation before it spiralled beyond his control.

By morning, he’d earned the pirates' wary trust. 

Morality was a luxury few could afford in the Raider’s world. Valen adapted quickly, learning how to steal, how to fight dirty, and how to read the silent language of the sea that’d claimed so many before him. His ability made him valuable, a living gauge of possibility. But it wasn’t just his instincts that set him apart, it was his charm. Where others were blunt instruments, Valen was a scalpel, navigating pirate politics with the ease of someone born to negotiate. 

No matter how far the seas carried him, he couldn’t outsail his nature. Justice flowed in his veins, and among the cutthroats and thieves, he found himself dragging others into line. Valen would honour his birthright, he owed it to his mother, but he’d forge his own legacy before returning to the Silver City.

☠︎︎ PERSONALITY 

Charismatic, adaptable, determined

Impulsive, prideful, guilty

[raidervalen]

i. Valen's tattoos are a map of his survival, but he keeps a mark behind his left ear hidden from view. The ink is a barely readable Elvhen symbol, a small tribute to his mother’s wisdom. He traces it when lost in thought, as if seeking Keara’s guidance, but quickly pulls his hand away when someone notices. 

ii. Valen keeps a journal brimming with tales, each page a patchwork of quotes and scribbles. Though he’d never admit it, he’s captivated by the stories spun by bards in the taverns he frequents. When he designs maps, they’re adorned with illustrations of local myths and monsters. Valen understands better than most the value of knowing a land’s dangers, both real and imagined.

iii. The nightmare always starts the same way: a man at the water’s edge, screaming silently, his hands outstretched. Valen never remembers how he killed him, but he knows, deep in his bones, that he’s responsible. He wakes below deck in a cold sweat, his chest tight, guilt clinging to him like salt on skin. To block it out, he throws himself into work and drills, refusing to rest until he’s too exhausted to dream.

iv. Valen can’t sit in one place for too long. He’ll often stand up mid-conversation, pacing back and forth. It isn’t boredom, it’s a compulsion, as if his legs have a mind of their own. Whenever he spends too much time on land, he’ll go for long walks at night, or pick up contracts to avoid being cooped up. 

v. None of his crew know of Valen's noble heritage. He’s careful to keep it that way, hiding the airs of privilege beneath his casual demeanour and weathered hands. Only his captain has glimpsed the truth: carefully folded letters from his father tucked among his belongings, the subtle way he navigates courtly etiquette, and the flashes of command in his voice that hint at a lifetime of authority. Even so, Valen avoids speaking of Lórien’dal. Not out of shame, but of respect for his homeland.