Profile of Ikaros Eliades: Quick Facts
Played By: reu
Basic Info
Full Name: Ikaros Eliades
Subspecies: Gray wolf
Size: Medium, Lanky
Sex: Male
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/Him
Age: 3 years old (6/28/21)
Birthplace: Dikastes (out of territory)
Subspecies: Gray wolf
Size: Medium, Lanky
Sex: Male
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/Him
Age: 3 years old (6/28/21)
Birthplace: Dikastes (out of territory)
At a Glance
i am a result.
Profile of Ikaros Eliades: Details
Appearance
ikaros is cloaked in stormy greys and blacks, with some off-white breaking sections apart much like the sun peaking through a thunderstorm's wake. he has eyes of gold, though typically they're shaded with a cloud of sorrow. he has a tall, leggy frame—built for endurance and not brute strength. his fur appears spikey, though in high humidity the ends tend to curl and crimp.
there is a small ridge in his muzzle, a grecian bump. his posture is typically unconfident, his head always level or below his shoulders, as if he's always on the prowl.
Personality
the hanged man — istj-t — true neutral
A man as turbulent as stormy seas, Ikaros is a troubled soul. He's insecure, uncouth, pessimistic, and withdrawn. He will play the charade of a tough soldier, when the reality is he's anything but. Unpleasant and blunt upon first impression, Ikaros is a man difficult to befriend, even harder to get to know. Keeping everyone at a distance is what keeps him safe.
positives — studious, dedicated, introspective
neutral — independent, introverted, well-spoken
negative — anxious, uncouth, standoffish, mistrustful
Biography
and what have i become?
The House of Eliades had ruled Dikastes for as long as the Kingdom has stood. Their kin were a primal kind, brutal and forged from fire. It'd long been rumored they were blessed by the gods and garnered their favor. Long bloodlines that'd birthed King after King—it was said their bloodline would rule until Dikastes fell.
King Eranthus and Queen Nimue were no exception. Their reign of terror was exactly that; they showed no mercy, especially to rivaling Kingdom's in which sought to oppress them, and were known to take prisoners of war. Their warriors were blades forged in wildfyre, taught from a young age to fight and die for their King. Pillaged and conquered until those neighboring their lands groveled at their feet.
They were feared. But through their reign, they'd struggled to rear any whelps, any heirs to the throne. Had they been cursed? Was Nimue unfit to birth whelps? The end of Eliades bloodline was staring them in the eye. Eranthus would not have his sacred blood end with himself—the Eliades were destined to rule. If they couldn't, they'd be overthrown, sent to live the rest of their days in squalor.
Whether it be by the blessing of their gods or witchcraft, on a summers day Eranthus announced that his wife had finally fell pregnant. This announcement was celebrated with great fires and feasts—the Eliades would live on through their heirs, and Dikastes would remain strong.
Nimue was old though, and the stress of pregnancy was unbearable. She spent many moons sick, and no skilled cleric could nurse her back to health. The labor, when the day came, was met with the worst storm the Kingdom had seen in years. It flooded the caverns of the poor, forced those out of homes, and took the lives of many others...
It was a bad omen many said. A very bad omen.
And when the storm passed, three pups were born. One was stillborn, the other so sickly it couldn't even nurse, and the other a mere runt. Nimue and Eranthus looked down at their only surviving son in scorn. By what sick joke was this? Their only surviving heir to the throne a weak, crying ball of fur? Was this punishment?
By some wicked miracle, the pup survived. Nimue, so disgusted by even the sound of its cries, pushed it off to brood-mothers to nurse and coddle until it was only enough to stand on its own. They couldn't have cared to name such a disgrace of a pup, so the brood-mothers took that responsibility, as well. His name henceforth was Ikaros.
He was a sickly pup for most of his younger years. Always had the sniffles, always was too weak to play and fight with other whelps in the brood-mother's dens. Ikaros was a pitiful excuse of an heir, his parents hissed in the night as they'd stalk through the caverns to leer at him in his sleep.
But their son he was, and they had no other choice. So when Ikaros was five months old, Nimue finally took him back into her custody. Yet, she was nothing like the warm and sweet brood-mothers; she was a viper of a woman, one so cold Ikaros feared his own mother.
Sometimes, he remembers the murderous glint that'd dance in her eyes whenever she'd look down upon him.
He didn't understand. She was his mother, why didn't she love him? Why would she ignore him, shove him off towards stewards whenever he needed tending to? And his father...he was worse. Eranthus would hide his ire in public, but in private? Ikaros fell victim to his disappointment and rage more often than he'd ever admit. In his nightmares, he can still feel that bite, those teeth.
Ikaros grew with harboring rage towards the King and Queen. And by association, his kingdom, as they treated him like the prodigal son he was portrayed to be. They bowed at his feet, showered him in offerings and prayers...but it all meant nothing. Because he was nothing. He wasn't the heir to the throne, least not the heir his parents wished for. He wasn't a warrior, but a coward. Eranthus wouldn't bother teaching him the art of battle—he believed his soft-hearted son wouldn't be able to even defend himself. Ikaros oftentimes wondered if he was right...
He became reclusive and rebellious. Lashing out at the masses, at the superiors, often fleeing off into the forests behind the Kingdom to wallow in his own self-pity and denial. For years he laid awake at night, whispering hushed prayers to his gods, begging that they would bless him with strength and prowess.
He came to hate his gods, too, when the prayers were left unanswered. The common folk said he was a blessing, but he felt like a hex. Ikaros did not want to lead, did not want the title that wasn't his to begin with. What a poser he'd feel like...
Time went on and the elding Eranthus grew ill and weak. Bedridden, he didn't trust Ikaros enough to handle trivial matters meant for an aspiring heir, but rather his advisors. Nimue still wouldn't as much utter a word his way. He wasn't even allowed in his fathers chambers, and often times had to sneak in to try and offer whatever help he could...only to be hissed and snarled at to go away.
It was another stormy night, yet another bad omen, when he snuck into his father's chambers yet again. Ikaros had ventured out into the marshes where witches made their covens, and sought out herbs and remedies that might save his father. If he managed that...perhaps he'd be loved, or at least acknowledged. The witches filled his satchels with bundles of different herbs, whispered the recipes for different elixirs that might help.
Ikaros was no healer. He tried his best to combine the herbs into an elixir the witches promised would do wonders, and hastened to pour the mixture down his father's throat as he slept. He sat, waited, and prayed for hours until he realized that his father's side had stilled. It no longer fell with each labored breath, but had stop rising all together. He scrambled and panicked, tried to nudge his father to wake him, but Eranthus did not stir.
In tears and denial, he fled from the chambers. Down the halls of the caverns, past the guards, out of the heart of the Kingdom. Ikaros ran until his legs ached and his lungs burned, and soon enough found that his lands were far behind him. He was alone, and his father was dead. Because of him, when all he was trying to do was help.
He'd felt like a failure many times in his life, but that was his breaking point. Ikaros couldn't turn back, face his mother and the masses. The idea of admitting he'd accidentally killed his father was like acid on his tongue and in his stomach. No...that secret was for only he and the gods to know.
Ikaros had no choice. If he returned, and the dots were connected, he'd be dubbed a Kingslayer. The highest of treason would result in the worst of punishments, and he was a coward.
And what do cowards do? They run.
King Eranthus and Queen Nimue were no exception. Their reign of terror was exactly that; they showed no mercy, especially to rivaling Kingdom's in which sought to oppress them, and were known to take prisoners of war. Their warriors were blades forged in wildfyre, taught from a young age to fight and die for their King. Pillaged and conquered until those neighboring their lands groveled at their feet.
They were feared. But through their reign, they'd struggled to rear any whelps, any heirs to the throne. Had they been cursed? Was Nimue unfit to birth whelps? The end of Eliades bloodline was staring them in the eye. Eranthus would not have his sacred blood end with himself—the Eliades were destined to rule. If they couldn't, they'd be overthrown, sent to live the rest of their days in squalor.
Whether it be by the blessing of their gods or witchcraft, on a summers day Eranthus announced that his wife had finally fell pregnant. This announcement was celebrated with great fires and feasts—the Eliades would live on through their heirs, and Dikastes would remain strong.
Nimue was old though, and the stress of pregnancy was unbearable. She spent many moons sick, and no skilled cleric could nurse her back to health. The labor, when the day came, was met with the worst storm the Kingdom had seen in years. It flooded the caverns of the poor, forced those out of homes, and took the lives of many others...
It was a bad omen many said. A very bad omen.
And when the storm passed, three pups were born. One was stillborn, the other so sickly it couldn't even nurse, and the other a mere runt. Nimue and Eranthus looked down at their only surviving son in scorn. By what sick joke was this? Their only surviving heir to the throne a weak, crying ball of fur? Was this punishment?
By some wicked miracle, the pup survived. Nimue, so disgusted by even the sound of its cries, pushed it off to brood-mothers to nurse and coddle until it was only enough to stand on its own. They couldn't have cared to name such a disgrace of a pup, so the brood-mothers took that responsibility, as well. His name henceforth was Ikaros.
He was a sickly pup for most of his younger years. Always had the sniffles, always was too weak to play and fight with other whelps in the brood-mother's dens. Ikaros was a pitiful excuse of an heir, his parents hissed in the night as they'd stalk through the caverns to leer at him in his sleep.
But their son he was, and they had no other choice. So when Ikaros was five months old, Nimue finally took him back into her custody. Yet, she was nothing like the warm and sweet brood-mothers; she was a viper of a woman, one so cold Ikaros feared his own mother.
Sometimes, he remembers the murderous glint that'd dance in her eyes whenever she'd look down upon him.
He didn't understand. She was his mother, why didn't she love him? Why would she ignore him, shove him off towards stewards whenever he needed tending to? And his father...he was worse. Eranthus would hide his ire in public, but in private? Ikaros fell victim to his disappointment and rage more often than he'd ever admit. In his nightmares, he can still feel that bite, those teeth.
Ikaros grew with harboring rage towards the King and Queen. And by association, his kingdom, as they treated him like the prodigal son he was portrayed to be. They bowed at his feet, showered him in offerings and prayers...but it all meant nothing. Because he was nothing. He wasn't the heir to the throne, least not the heir his parents wished for. He wasn't a warrior, but a coward. Eranthus wouldn't bother teaching him the art of battle—he believed his soft-hearted son wouldn't be able to even defend himself. Ikaros oftentimes wondered if he was right...
He became reclusive and rebellious. Lashing out at the masses, at the superiors, often fleeing off into the forests behind the Kingdom to wallow in his own self-pity and denial. For years he laid awake at night, whispering hushed prayers to his gods, begging that they would bless him with strength and prowess.
He came to hate his gods, too, when the prayers were left unanswered. The common folk said he was a blessing, but he felt like a hex. Ikaros did not want to lead, did not want the title that wasn't his to begin with. What a poser he'd feel like...
Time went on and the elding Eranthus grew ill and weak. Bedridden, he didn't trust Ikaros enough to handle trivial matters meant for an aspiring heir, but rather his advisors. Nimue still wouldn't as much utter a word his way. He wasn't even allowed in his fathers chambers, and often times had to sneak in to try and offer whatever help he could...only to be hissed and snarled at to go away.
It was another stormy night, yet another bad omen, when he snuck into his father's chambers yet again. Ikaros had ventured out into the marshes where witches made their covens, and sought out herbs and remedies that might save his father. If he managed that...perhaps he'd be loved, or at least acknowledged. The witches filled his satchels with bundles of different herbs, whispered the recipes for different elixirs that might help.
Ikaros was no healer. He tried his best to combine the herbs into an elixir the witches promised would do wonders, and hastened to pour the mixture down his father's throat as he slept. He sat, waited, and prayed for hours until he realized that his father's side had stilled. It no longer fell with each labored breath, but had stop rising all together. He scrambled and panicked, tried to nudge his father to wake him, but Eranthus did not stir.
In tears and denial, he fled from the chambers. Down the halls of the caverns, past the guards, out of the heart of the Kingdom. Ikaros ran until his legs ached and his lungs burned, and soon enough found that his lands were far behind him. He was alone, and his father was dead. Because of him, when all he was trying to do was help.
He'd felt like a failure many times in his life, but that was his breaking point. Ikaros couldn't turn back, face his mother and the masses. The idea of admitting he'd accidentally killed his father was like acid on his tongue and in his stomach. No...that secret was for only he and the gods to know.
Ikaros had no choice. If he returned, and the dots were connected, he'd be dubbed a Kingslayer. The highest of treason would result in the worst of punishments, and he was a coward.
And what do cowards do? They run.
Relations
heritage— eranthus ♂ ; nimue ♀
siblings — none
mate — ??? ♂
offspring — n/a
Pack History
Dikastes — Birth to 2024
Loner — Present
Loner — Present
Profile of Ikaros Eliades: Additional Information
Registered on December 17, 2024, last visited (Hidden)
Art Credits
in order of appearance: crisadence
lightningspam
mayhw
lightningspam
mayhw
Ikaros Eliades's Signature
![[Image: 83219981_HW4DUHRzRh6uiLr.gif]](https://f2.toyhou.se/file/f2-toyhou-se/images/83219981_HW4DUHRzRh6uiLr.gif)
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