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FULL NAME: Lord Richelieu Rosseau
TITLE(S): Holy Inquisitor of Her Halonic Doctrine
AGE: Adult (40s?)
BIRTHPLACE: The Holy See of Ishgard
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Unknown
RELATIONSHIP STATUS: It's complicated
HOUSE: The High House of Dzemael
PATRON: Her, the Fury

Sat On His Throne of Ash and Bone

He was of the night. A scent of nightblooms and lavender chased the Holy Inquisitor, flooding to fill the space in which he left.He spoke with a low purr, always. And ever was a smirk touched to tame his lips. Old of blood, rich of wealth, with a heavy thread of old, long dead men of the same line as him wickedly weaving their way into political promise.During the Song, he was known as the Spider of the Holy See, with his cobwebs scattered about, and his silk gathering lies and secrets. Sending easy heretics to the bottom of bone-littered Witchdrops.He lived well and long as a smirking tyrant, born better than most, which fed from the feast of Ishgard's old ways, fattening his own pockets full.And when the Song sung her last, he held tight to his position of power. Tumbling into finding fast rivals, and malicious rumors set to out him as a beast and nothing but a spent, five-legged spider.His time was yesterday.And now, he is nothing but a man sat on a throne of bones, sooty with spent ash.A graveyard might well be more fitting for him—haunted by the many games he schemes to play.

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She was fascinating. With that much he was certain. But the rest? It was like staring at the sun and wishing to see stars. He had no clue, he was blind. And Richelieu Rosseau hated not knowing absolutely everything.Color it with his arrogant palette—he knew it was his own flaw. The kink in his design.But she was soft and warm. Like summer—not his brisk winter. She smiled where he smirked. Touched and teased where he stood alone and long and with his hands in his pockets. She carried a scent of lazy days and sunflowers.“I like to see those moments,” she whispered. Eyes upon the stars.“Moments?”“The dance before the dance. The dance itself.” Her voice was a raven’s feather. “The whispers and the promises. The way a word can bring the stars down.”Oh. He knew all about that.He spoke with a purr. “Head to Coerthas where dragon bones lie as ash next to trees.” Indifference. His voice was wet with it. And his frown—it butchered his smirk and made him sharper. Deadlier. His magic, he knew, was in the air like a mist. A tickle down her spine because it slid through all that was warm about her and made her shiver. “And mind the dark. Things move in the shadows up there.”If only he knew the next he saw of her, she too would be buried beneath the earth. Dead.

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IvorySongbirdWolfLionBrotherDuke

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Decorated in ivory. Brushed by stars, spun by snow, the Lady of the Green Burrow swirled as silk beneath one black-inked night and the rest, as they say, was history. A tale became told of ample angles. With two players to the game, and wearers of many masks coming together, hand to hand, debt to bones. She gave him color, and he in return offered stars and steel sharp for a delicate throat. But the question crept in—whose blood shall drip to the floor?A songbird softly singing. Oblivious. Child-like with her innocence. Taken like a winter apple and bitten into by the teeth of many. Within her folds his guilt, his sin, his shame. Her feathers once white, now red, told his story. They were right to hate him. He stole her voice. And now, as the stories spin, and swords turn to whet, and spells begin to burn, they would see him hang for what was done.Some nights, he ripped himself to pieces and repaired himself as a half-done thing by dawn. His anger, beautiful. His pain, sweet. The wolf with the lone, black path, marked by shafts of the moon appeared with teeth, with claws, with a savage's spear—but the grief in greens caught words in a spider's throat. He knew the name of a similar story—knew the touch of those words inked to the skin as scars. And so, with a smirk, a chase had begun to mark one side of the moon.Sanity sounds in the strangest of places—by a man dressed in scars and grass greens with sharp teeth. The lion released himself as a summer storm, surging through with a need to make right what was done to her so long ago. Was it hate to fuel him? Lust for revenge which saw him move? Whatever it was, it made of him mad, and suddenly, the monster inside of him prowled silently as he found his own song.Ser Luquin, a brother, born a bastard, raised as a lesser spawn—can his brother be blamed for the hate and the rivalry between day and dusk? He was summer. Richelieu was winter. A long life lived in the cruel service of a goddess gladdened by gore made him slip, made him fall, and the shadows at his feet flickered all their own.

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HI-EEE! I am an adult, she/her (30+). LBGTQIA+. No minors engage. I will not write with people below the age of twenty-one. This is a hard rule! And my only one.THEMES The themes I enjoy touch on story-rich, plot-driven, character-developing arcs. Dabble in a bit of mystery, a sprinkle of intrigue. Magic. Drama. Slice-of-life to a point. Ishgardian nuances from both sides of the fence—loyalists, outsiders and otherwise. Threats! Darker, mature, grim themes are a delight to me! But I will never force my dramatics and angst-loving self onto others. Please keep in mind—Richelieu is a Holy Inquisitor, a sly, clever devil, quietly scheming with his secret-gathering spider web. But I enjoy watching him squirm when bested and stress with tests. His rumoured hedonistic traits are not an open invitation for easy ERP. Please, if that is your goal, move along.CONTACT My DMs are open. I am friendly and I love, love, love creating characters and plots, and bashing heads to see stories born. Discord can be given on request. If you are a prose-pretty writer, or someone in love with good ol' angst — someone with a love for stories and plots — hit me up. ♥DETAILS In-game: Richelieu Rosseau. (EU) GMT+1 but late nights are no stranger to meee.