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Description

ILIADAP Tracker | Moodboard

So inside the rage
Against the dying of the light
It's alright to say that death's the only thing you haven't tried

Name: Iliad
Age: 28 (aged down from 82)
Gender: Cis male
Orientation: Uncertain
Species: Hippocampus (bichir)
Build: Arabian x marwari
Height: 16 hh
Coat Color: Grey with palomino chimera

Herd Affiliation: Serora
Rank: Mullah Apprentice / Order of Hyssop
Patron god: Used to be a Cascade fan; feeling lost currently

Talents: locked
Blessing: locked
Familiar: locked

APPEARANCE:
x Dished, dainty profile and curved ears
x Naturally very long, pale eyelashes
x Slender build; long legs and neck; athletic but doesn’t gather mass easily
x Long, silky mane that rarely tangles

PERSONALITY: Patient | Dedicated | Articulate | Contemplative | Reserved | Observant | Apathetic | Self-loathing | Jealous | Emotionally Stunted

Iliad was born quiet, and grew up with borrowed ambition and stolen dreams. He is used to settling, waiting, ready for just the right moment that never comes. His long life is a series of disappointments and opportunities that were allowed to pass because he wasn’t ready for them - he was never ready for them.
Iliad is by nature an observant, quiet man who likes to take his time with things - needs time to consider and compare. He is especially skilled in turning this observant eye upon himself, often with unfavorable conclusions. Iliad hates go-getters and overachievers, and simultaneously envies them with a painful intensity.

Iliad has always felt like he was not good enough - that he should, could, would be something more. Expectations internalized since childhood have made this observant man dangerously cruel to himself. Iliad is used to pushing aside his emotions, especially when they contradict what he ought to be.
So instead, he has turned to others. Observing them, envying them, living through them. Iliad has made himself a tool for the success and wishes of others; a slippery stranger who will be a tool for a goal, nothing more. Real relationships are difficult to muster; his interactions are almost juvenile and filled with one-upping and jealous comparisons. It’s not that he wants to be alone - it’s that he isn’t sure he deserves to be loved.
When Iliad looks in the mirror, he hates what he sees.
More terrifyingly, he hardly knows the man that looks back.

Never having been particularly keen on analyzing the pits of his self-hatred, he has instead learned a quiet, resentful rage. Iliad rarely voices his true thoughts - sometimes he barely dares to think them, for there is an ugliness dwelling within his head. Instead, he paints over them with a veneer of carefully chosen, quiet words, picked just right to fit the listener.
The words in his head are much less pleasant.
It has never been hard to rationalize that he deserves the hardship and suffering.

But for a man who has spent his whole life quietly watching, he suddenly finds himself bursting at the seams - tired of enduring, and running short on patience. He has waited for so long, and he doesn’t want to anymore, even if it is all that he knows.
Iliad isn’t sure who he is if he isn’t the quiet, observant, invisible man.
Then again, he isn’t sure who he is that way either.

His newfound youth has drudged up old pain and bitterness. Things he made peace with - that he settled for - a lifetime ago are fresh once more. The thought of fading back into nothing is painful, especially as it feels inevitable. Iliad simultaneously clings to the opportunities of his new life, and wants to reject them and slink back into the apathy of being, rather than living.
The emotions raging within are forceful - so unlike himself. He is afraid of them, terrified of what he might do if he ever lets himself go. What he might find out about himself.

He tells people he’s fine; but he’s not a good liar.
He says he has it under control, but they can all see the cracks.
He claims he doesn’t need anyone, but Markus’ smile makes his heart flutter.

He says he doesn’t care, but he does.
Deeply.
Desperately.
Hungrily.

Gods have mercy.
He wants his chance.

HISTORY: Reader discretion adviced: Past contains mentions of domestic violence and suicidal ideations.

Iliad was born Dali, the firstborn son of a new marriage. His parents, a Guardian and a Philosopher, were the typical match of convenience and compatibility, rather than love. Theirs was a marriage of filling expectations, and their family was stable, quiet and just right. There were never raised voices, no excitement, no running in the halls, no matter how big the family grew.
Growing up he felt overshadowed by his younger brother, Lazar. Where Dali was dainty, Lazar was large and muscular, the picture of a perfect Talori colt. Opposites in every regard, Lazar was brave and decisive, while Dali was quiet and contemplative. Lazar was popular, Dali an observer. The favoritism was not intentional, but it was obvious - Dali knew more was expected of him, but could not compete. Always simply good enough, never the reason for pride. When his father took Lazar out to bond and play, Dali had to stay home to watch his sisters.

Lazar announced that he would become a Guardian at the tender age of 8, a decision that elicited many cheers from their parents, and congratulations from the relatives who were present. Dali, eager to share the spotlight, announced that he wanted the same - but was met with disbelief and counterarguments. Refusing to see the sense in them, his mind was made up.
He would be a Guardian, no matter what.
Dali sought out a mentor, a stallion with a temper similar to his own. His training went as expected, but for every achievement and milestone, Lazar did one better, despite being younger. His brother just always fit the mold, always did and said the right things.
One day, Dali swore. One day he would be noticed too.

A few years passed, and the brothers eventually ended up on duty alongside one another.
Dali doesn’t quite remember what had started it, but it was some bad joke. The joke became an argument, and the argument became a shouting match. Years of resentment were aired - ugly things were said. Dali remembers storming off into the night.
Lazar never left his post.
He was found the next morning, body broken on the rocks below their station. Slipped on the steep stone steps, wet from summer rain, they said.
Dali was questioned, but never accused. Not by the authorities, anyway.
His family, well, they were a different matter. The unspoken blame filled the silences between them, and he knew that his parents would never be proud of him.

Lazar’s fiance, betrothed since childhood, was heartbroken. A future planned, now dead, and Dali made for a poor replacement - that they could all agree on. Yet the match was made, despite Dali’s protests. He found himself in a cold bed and a silent home draped in mourning. She hardly spoke; when she did, it was a poisonous hiss.
The hiss grew into a growl, and the growl into violence.
Dali bore it. What else could he do? To fight back would have been worse, he felt.
She was so fragile.
So angry.
So filled with hatred.

Dali covered the marks with his armor, and explained the rest away. The wounds on his soul went unseen, his pleading unheard.
Perhaps he deserved it all.
Yes, that must be it.

They could never conceive, and yet his wife had a child. Dali chose to keep quiet - she deserved that much happiness. Their son was born healthy and happy, with his mother’s charming features and another man’s eyes. It was not obvious to anyone else, but Dali knew.
He worked hard. Was a good provider. Gave the child with a stranger’s eyes everything a father would - but the work meant less time at home. The child grew up a stranger to him, his mother’s child.
Sometimes Dali could swear the boy looked like Lazar, and it terrified him.

Eventually the stranger he called son took on an apprenticeship, became a Brewer, and moved out with a new wife. Their home was quiet again, just the three of them: Dali, his wife, and her rage.

He ran away. Ran to Stormvault’s Keep, taking on the role of a prison warden. She stayed behind - it was no place for a woman, he argued, and for once, she agreed. He was diligent and quiet in his new post, a ghost of the penentary. He made no connections, only memories. The ever-changing cast of prisoners, the corruption, the haunted faces of those sent away to Eithne. He remembers, vividly. But he knew to keep quiet, knew how to strangle the daydream of just… Sailing away, never to look back.
After years of service, he was too old and slow, and was returned to the mainland to mentor tenderfeet. There he found his house, with every indication of his existence carefully scrubbed away. Dali slept in a tavern, visiting the house only for appearances. He could smell strangers in the house, but it did not bother him - his family had been strangers to him all his life.
And if his wife was not alone, it hardly mattered.

She died, eventually. Withered away by illness.
Dali moved back into the empty house.
It was quiet, in the house.
He had never been so truly alone.

Dali liked it that way.

Unfortunately, soon after the Flight descended on Inaria. Elderly and feeble, he was hardly a concern. He lived to aid others, and was sure that this time his quiet endurance would fail him; that Torrine would be his resting place.
Yet he lived.

Almost vindicated by his own survival, Dali signed up to aid Serora. It took convincing to be allowed to go, but in his years of being quiet, Dali had learned how to argue rings around others.
So he went. In the capacity of an instructor, he sailed to Sedo, where he would surely meet his end, finally doing something worthwhile.
One last service for his country; the first and only huzzah of his life.
All was in order.
He was ready.

The voyage was harsh, and Sedo was harsher. He worked himself hard, mentoring deep into the viciously cold nights. At some point, his endurance had to give; when their ship sailed back to Talori, he wouldn’t be on it.
On their final night, he found himself a spot, and there, a stranger in turn found him. They had a potion, a potion they said would end all his worries in a flash.
Dali, not really caring but wanting to make sure, took their word for it.
Took a swig and took a fall, the pain racking his body as unconsciousness took him.
Surely, for the final time - and Dali did not fight it.

But the next morning he woke to the inquiring jab of a stick. A voice asked why he was sleeping there. Dali rose to find his body limber and young, the aches of age gone.
What sorcery was this?
The stranger wanted his name, and Dali stuttered out “Iliad”. The stumbled uncertainty of it got him an amused comment about too much peyote, but the Mullah didn’t seem bothered.
A few eager questions and mumbled answers later, he found himself in front of the Council, and under official apprenticeship to the Mullah that found him. He hardly had time to process it when complete strangers were already congratulating him on his apprenticeship.
Him. An apprentice.
Again?

At least it seemed he had a whole another lifetime to figure it out.

TRIVIA:
x Teke is oceanic turquoise
x Is illiterate, but quickly learning
x Defensive about his naturally somewhat feminine appearance and demeanor; still getting used to the idea that Serora doesn't care
x Does not talk about his past or his Talorian accent and tries his best to avoid the subject entirely; lies if directly questioned

CREDITS
Fullbody, headshot and character: me
Design (small fullbody): queerly

Description

ILIADAP Tracker | Moodboard

So inside the rage
Against the dying of the light
It's alright to say that death's the only thing you haven't tried

Name: Iliad
Age: 28 (aged down from 82)
Gender: Cis male
Orientation: Uncertain
Species: Hippocampus (bichir)
Build: Arabian x marwari
Height: 16 hh
Coat Color: Grey with palomino chimera

Herd Affiliation: Serora
Rank: Mullah Apprentice / Order of Hyssop
Patron god: Used to be a Cascade fan; feeling lost currently

Talents: locked
Blessing: locked
Familiar: locked

APPEARANCE:
x Dished, dainty profile and curved ears
x Naturally very long, pale eyelashes
x Slender build; long legs and neck; athletic but doesn’t gather mass easily
x Long, silky mane that rarely tangles

PERSONALITY: Patient | Dedicated | Articulate | Contemplative | Reserved | Observant | Apathetic | Self-loathing | Jealous | Emotionally Stunted

Iliad was born quiet, and grew up with borrowed ambition and stolen dreams. He is used to settling, waiting, ready for just the right moment that never comes. His long life is a series of disappointments and opportunities that were allowed to pass because he wasn’t ready for them - he was never ready for them.
Iliad is by nature an observant, quiet man who likes to take his time with things - needs time to consider and compare. He is especially skilled in turning this observant eye upon himself, often with unfavorable conclusions. Iliad hates go-getters and overachievers, and simultaneously envies them with a painful intensity.

Iliad has always felt like he was not good enough - that he should, could, would be something more. Expectations internalized since childhood have made this observant man dangerously cruel to himself. Iliad is used to pushing aside his emotions, especially when they contradict what he ought to be.
So instead, he has turned to others. Observing them, envying them, living through them. Iliad has made himself a tool for the success and wishes of others; a slippery stranger who will be a tool for a goal, nothing more. Real relationships are difficult to muster; his interactions are almost juvenile and filled with one-upping and jealous comparisons. It’s not that he wants to be alone - it’s that he isn’t sure he deserves to be loved.
When Iliad looks in the mirror, he hates what he sees.
More terrifyingly, he hardly knows the man that looks back.

Never having been particularly keen on analyzing the pits of his self-hatred, he has instead learned a quiet, resentful rage. Iliad rarely voices his true thoughts - sometimes he barely dares to think them, for there is an ugliness dwelling within his head. Instead, he paints over them with a veneer of carefully chosen, quiet words, picked just right to fit the listener.
The words in his head are much less pleasant.
It has never been hard to rationalize that he deserves the hardship and suffering.

But for a man who has spent his whole life quietly watching, he suddenly finds himself bursting at the seams - tired of enduring, and running short on patience. He has waited for so long, and he doesn’t want to anymore, even if it is all that he knows.
Iliad isn’t sure who he is if he isn’t the quiet, observant, invisible man.
Then again, he isn’t sure who he is that way either.

His newfound youth has drudged up old pain and bitterness. Things he made peace with - that he settled for - a lifetime ago are fresh once more. The thought of fading back into nothing is painful, especially as it feels inevitable. Iliad simultaneously clings to the opportunities of his new life, and wants to reject them and slink back into the apathy of being, rather than living.
The emotions raging within are forceful - so unlike himself. He is afraid of them, terrified of what he might do if he ever lets himself go. What he might find out about himself.

He tells people he’s fine; but he’s not a good liar.
He says he has it under control, but they can all see the cracks.
He claims he doesn’t need anyone, but Markus’ smile makes his heart flutter.

He says he doesn’t care, but he does.
Deeply.
Desperately.
Hungrily.

Gods have mercy.
He wants his chance.

HISTORY: Reader discretion adviced: Past contains mentions of domestic violence and suicidal ideations.

Iliad was born Dali, the firstborn son of a new marriage. His parents, a Guardian and a Philosopher, were the typical match of convenience and compatibility, rather than love. Theirs was a marriage of filling expectations, and their family was stable, quiet and just right. There were never raised voices, no excitement, no running in the halls, no matter how big the family grew.
Growing up he felt overshadowed by his younger brother, Lazar. Where Dali was dainty, Lazar was large and muscular, the picture of a perfect Talori colt. Opposites in every regard, Lazar was brave and decisive, while Dali was quiet and contemplative. Lazar was popular, Dali an observer. The favoritism was not intentional, but it was obvious - Dali knew more was expected of him, but could not compete. Always simply good enough, never the reason for pride. When his father took Lazar out to bond and play, Dali had to stay home to watch his sisters.

Lazar announced that he would become a Guardian at the tender age of 8, a decision that elicited many cheers from their parents, and congratulations from the relatives who were present. Dali, eager to share the spotlight, announced that he wanted the same - but was met with disbelief and counterarguments. Refusing to see the sense in them, his mind was made up.
He would be a Guardian, no matter what.
Dali sought out a mentor, a stallion with a temper similar to his own. His training went as expected, but for every achievement and milestone, Lazar did one better, despite being younger. His brother just always fit the mold, always did and said the right things.
One day, Dali swore. One day he would be noticed too.

A few years passed, and the brothers eventually ended up on duty alongside one another.
Dali doesn’t quite remember what had started it, but it was some bad joke. The joke became an argument, and the argument became a shouting match. Years of resentment were aired - ugly things were said. Dali remembers storming off into the night.
Lazar never left his post.
He was found the next morning, body broken on the rocks below their station. Slipped on the steep stone steps, wet from summer rain, they said.
Dali was questioned, but never accused. Not by the authorities, anyway.
His family, well, they were a different matter. The unspoken blame filled the silences between them, and he knew that his parents would never be proud of him.

Lazar’s fiance, betrothed since childhood, was heartbroken. A future planned, now dead, and Dali made for a poor replacement - that they could all agree on. Yet the match was made, despite Dali’s protests. He found himself in a cold bed and a silent home draped in mourning. She hardly spoke; when she did, it was a poisonous hiss.
The hiss grew into a growl, and the growl into violence.
Dali bore it. What else could he do? To fight back would have been worse, he felt.
She was so fragile.
So angry.
So filled with hatred.

Dali covered the marks with his armor, and explained the rest away. The wounds on his soul went unseen, his pleading unheard.
Perhaps he deserved it all.
Yes, that must be it.

They could never conceive, and yet his wife had a child. Dali chose to keep quiet - she deserved that much happiness. Their son was born healthy and happy, with his mother’s charming features and another man’s eyes. It was not obvious to anyone else, but Dali knew.
He worked hard. Was a good provider. Gave the child with a stranger’s eyes everything a father would - but the work meant less time at home. The child grew up a stranger to him, his mother’s child.
Sometimes Dali could swear the boy looked like Lazar, and it terrified him.

Eventually the stranger he called son took on an apprenticeship, became a Brewer, and moved out with a new wife. Their home was quiet again, just the three of them: Dali, his wife, and her rage.

He ran away. Ran to Stormvault’s Keep, taking on the role of a prison warden. She stayed behind - it was no place for a woman, he argued, and for once, she agreed. He was diligent and quiet in his new post, a ghost of the penentary. He made no connections, only memories. The ever-changing cast of prisoners, the corruption, the haunted faces of those sent away to Eithne. He remembers, vividly. But he knew to keep quiet, knew how to strangle the daydream of just… Sailing away, never to look back.
After years of service, he was too old and slow, and was returned to the mainland to mentor tenderfeet. There he found his house, with every indication of his existence carefully scrubbed away. Dali slept in a tavern, visiting the house only for appearances. He could smell strangers in the house, but it did not bother him - his family had been strangers to him all his life.
And if his wife was not alone, it hardly mattered.

She died, eventually. Withered away by illness.
Dali moved back into the empty house.
It was quiet, in the house.
He had never been so truly alone.

Dali liked it that way.

Unfortunately, soon after the Flight descended on Inaria. Elderly and feeble, he was hardly a concern. He lived to aid others, and was sure that this time his quiet endurance would fail him; that Torrine would be his resting place.
Yet he lived.

Almost vindicated by his own survival, Dali signed up to aid Serora. It took convincing to be allowed to go, but in his years of being quiet, Dali had learned how to argue rings around others.
So he went. In the capacity of an instructor, he sailed to Sedo, where he would surely meet his end, finally doing something worthwhile.
One last service for his country; the first and only huzzah of his life.
All was in order.
He was ready.

The voyage was harsh, and Sedo was harsher. He worked himself hard, mentoring deep into the viciously cold nights. At some point, his endurance had to give; when their ship sailed back to Talori, he wouldn’t be on it.
On their final night, he found himself a spot, and there, a stranger in turn found him. They had a potion, a potion they said would end all his worries in a flash.
Dali, not really caring but wanting to make sure, took their word for it.
Took a swig and took a fall, the pain racking his body as unconsciousness took him.
Surely, for the final time - and Dali did not fight it.

But the next morning he woke to the inquiring jab of a stick. A voice asked why he was sleeping there. Dali rose to find his body limber and young, the aches of age gone.
What sorcery was this?
The stranger wanted his name, and Dali stuttered out “Iliad”. The stumbled uncertainty of it got him an amused comment about too much peyote, but the Mullah didn’t seem bothered.
A few eager questions and mumbled answers later, he found himself in front of the Council, and under official apprenticeship to the Mullah that found him. He hardly had time to process it when complete strangers were already congratulating him on his apprenticeship.
Him. An apprentice.
Again?

At least it seemed he had a whole another lifetime to figure it out.

TRIVIA:
x Teke is oceanic turquoise
x Is illiterate, but quickly learning
x Defensive about his naturally somewhat feminine appearance and demeanor; still getting used to the idea that Serora doesn't care
x Does not talk about his past or his Talorian accent and tries his best to avoid the subject entirely; lies if directly questioned

CREDITS
Fullbody, headshot and character: me
Design (small fullbody): queerly