sionewigx

[sionewigx]

SIMONE SUSINNA

[sionewigx]

Sion had been leaning against the stone like he belonged there - one boot braced, arms folded, hair still flattened at the back from snot-sleeping the night before. The dawn light painted him in pale gold, catching on the edge of a silver ring and the exposed skin of his chest where his shirt hung open, unconcerned with propriety or appearances. He watched Monty with that familiar half-lidded gaze, unreadable as ever, a slow grin threatening at the corner of his mouth.

He listened without interrupting, only the flick of a brow betraying recognition of the weight behind Monty’s words. It had always been like this - Monty, with his earnest heart barely hidden under wit and bravado, and Sion, slipping through affection like smoke, never quite landing, never quite leaving. But there was something in the way he tilted his head just then, the way his stance shifted. He’d never said the words aloud. Not to Monty. Not when it mattered. And yet, he had followed. Not for glory, not for gold - but for him. Lying, however casual, flowed easily - though with Monty it lacked conviction.

“You think I followed you?” he drawled, lazy and low, but without heat. “Monts, if I followed anyone, it was the wine. Or the danger. Or the chance to rob some peacocks blind.” An undiscovered Kingdom where no one knew his name? It was practically foreplay.

Maybe he hadn’t forgiven him, not really. But he’d never needed to. Sion wasn't sure if he'd know the taste of forgiveness if it met his tongue, a good grudge suited him better. "Me?" He grinned. "Never."

for: the trio (they know who they are) where: near the valtolian guests' enclave when: far too early

"you know how grateful I am."

the great thief monty, reduced to kicking rocks. reduced to bemoaning his fate. reduced to wearing a shirt, or at least wearing a vest, and being tutted at if he left it open. the incredulity!

"when I think about how things were. what we've achieved. I still can't believe you followed me here." it's a bit harder than usual to swing his gaze the man's way. one of the ones he'd trusted most, among others. he likely wouldn't have lasted this long without him

"to the place I wanted to leave behind. the secret I wanted to forget." his grin was slow, slight. "are you still certain you forgive me?"

[sionewigx]

( SIMONE SUSSINA, BISEXUAL, CISMALE & HE/HIM ) — by the grace of the gods, old and new, i present to you SION EWIG the WARD. of HOUSE SELWYN within the lands of VALTOLIA. the gods have blessed us with their presence for 33 years. many know them to be OBSERVANT, CUNNING, ROGUISH, and while it is not always shown, it is said they can also be DECEPTIVE, SELFISH, GREEDY. 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: Rabastan Vale Sion Ewig title: Ward epithets:  none age: thirty-three birthplace: Valtolia gender + pronouns: cis male, he/him  years of squiring: kinks: *shrugs* antikinks: *shrugs harder*

appearance

Sion has a lazy grace that comes from someone who knows he’s being watched - and doesn’t mind one bit. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the lean muscle of someone used to both climbing rooftops and slipping through bedroom windows. Deep, storm-gray eyes - sharp, assessing, and rarely fully honest and framed by thick lashes.

His clothing is always finely made, though often rumpled by intention or indulgence - silken shirts unbuttoned just a little too low, rich leathers dyed in shadowy hues, the occasional flash of silver rings or a stolen signet. There’s a casual opulence to him, as if luxury were something he slipped into as easily as lies. Scars mark his hands and collarbone - reminiscent of a life half-lived in shadows - but he wears them like jewelry. Sion doesn’t dress to impress. He dresses to seduce, to disarm, and to play the game.

persona

Sion drifts into a room like smoke. He’s a rogue in every sense: clever-tongued, sharp-eyed, and always chasing the next indulgence. He lives for the thrill of the gamble, the heat of a fleeting glance, the weight of a coin purse not his own. With a wit as quick as his hands and a smile that’s made saints sin, Sion thrives in the grey spaces of morality - never cruel, but never quite kind either. He’s observant to the point of discomfort, peeling back people’s facades like they’re just another game to master.

Beneath the charm and vice, though, lies something colder - apathetic, almost. He doesn’t crave power or redemption; he wants freedom, the kind that comes without bloodlines or expectations. He’s not running from his past so much as he's bored of it, refusing to be defined by a dead name or the ghost of a house that would rather see him as a symbol than a man. His loyalty is earned slowly and spent carefully - because even when he plays the fool, Sion never forgets who holds the dagger… or where he left his.

sexual

Sion's approach to love and lust has the same reckless abandon he gives to everything else: like it’s a game worth playing, even if he never intends to win. He is deeply, unapologetically bisexual, drawn not to gender but to charisma, danger, wit - anything that stirs that slow, crooked grin of his. He courts with charm and casual confidence, often slipping into beds and hearts with equal ease, but rarely staying long enough for things to settle. Intimacy, for him, is another form of power, another kind of thrill, and he chases it freely - without shame, without promises. He knows how to make someone feel like the center of the world, even if only for a night.

But commitment? That’s trickier. Sion doesn’t trust easily, and while he can love - deeply, even - he guards that part of himself. He’s known what it means to be used, to be positioned, to be a legacy in waiting, and he’s no stranger to betrayal. So he keeps his heart behind lock and key, wrapped in half-truths and fleeting moments. Relationships for him are often brief, passionate, and layered in banter and unspoken rules.

folklore

Lost heir of House Vale, believed deceased for 20+ years.