Valandor Petroris

The Last Keeper of Islafoq

Birth & Early Life

Valandor Petroris was the only son and heir of Tannatár Petroris, the revered founder and first king of the island-city of Islafoq. Born in the twilight years of his father’s reign, Valandor was raised under the weight of immense expectation, not only as the heir but as the future guardian of the Ankh of light, an ancient and dangerous artifact that had been safeguarded by his bloodline for centuries.

From a young age, Valandor was trained in both the arcane and martial arts, for the rulers of Islafoq were not merely kings but also the chief protectors of the relic. Unlike his father an explorer and visionary who carved a kingdom from the wilds. Valandor was a scholar at heart, delving deep into the histories and magics of the relic, seeking to understand the full extent of its power… and its peril.

The Evacuation and the Final Seal

The relic’s influence had grown too strong, its whispers too seductive, and lured unimaginable horrors to the island both in its depths and at the surface. Valandor, now ruling in his father’s stead, made a fateful decree: The people shall not perish with the island.

For months, he oversaw a desperate exodus. Ships carried thousands to distant shores—scholars, warriors, artisans, and common folk alike, all stripped of their home but spared the coming isolation. Some refused to leave, loyal to the last, but Valandor was unyielding. "Islafoq’s legacy is not stone and spire," he declared. "It is you. Carry our story beyond these waves."

When the last ship vanished over the horizon, Valandor stood alone upon the silent docks, the wind howling through empty streets. Only then did he enact what he had told his father would be necessary, the Ritual of the Mist Veil.

The magic required a king’s blood. Not as sacrifice, but as anchor. As Valandor spoke the incantations, his veins burned with searing light, his very essence weaving into the barrier that would encase the island. The seas roared as the mist that had hidden the island for centuries, changed and made the mist heavier and thicker. Light could still peer through the mist, but one without strong magical aids and an anchor to the city, could any longer pass through the mist off or onto the island.

Some say he perished that day, his body dissolving into the spellwork. Others claim he remains, a solitary sentinel in a dead kingdom, bound eternally to the prison of the relic. A few whispers of a ghostly figure glimpsed at the shore, his hand pressed against the unseen barrier, as if yearning to follow his people into the world he sealed away.

Most of this part of history is lost to time, on purpose. But the most important thing, not remembered or known by most, is Valandor's visionary foresight to completely seal the island. So that history would not take a massive turn for the worse at this time. Even if the seal is broken in the future, the time saved might change the outcome of the disaster looming, but only time will tell.

Physique & Presence

Valandor stood tall and slender, his frame bearing the graceful poise of elven nobility, though years of relentless duty had hardened him like wind-carved stone. His once-vibrant golden-brown skin had grown pallid from decades spent under the mist safeguarding the island, and his posture, though still proud, carried the invisible weight of the crown.

Face & Eyes

His face was sharp yet solemn, with high cheekbones and a jawline that spoke of his royal lineage. So like his father’s, yet lacking Tannatar’s fiery resolve. Valandor’s most striking feature was his eyes a luminous, storm-gray hue, bright with the residual magic of the sealing ritual. They flickered like distant lightning when he spoke of the relic, and those who met his gaze too long claimed to hear the whisper of the sea or something beneath it.

Hair

His hair, once a deep chestnut streaked with sunlight, had turned ashen during the final days of the sealing, as if the ritual had leached the vitality from him. He wore it long and loosely tied back, strands often escaping to frame his face in silvered disarray.

Attire

In Islafoq’s twilight, he dressed in robes of muted blues and grays, the colours of dusk and deep water. His garments were finely made but showed signs of wear frayed hems, tarnished embroidery, as though he no longer cared for finery. Over them, he wore a half-cape of woven seagrass and enchanted silver thread, a relic of his father’s reign, said to shield him from the island’s creeping horrors.

Markings & Signs of the Relic

• His hands were scarred with pale, spiralling runes—burned into his skin during the sealing ritual, forever binding him to the island’s magic.
• A cracked silver circlet, too heavy for his brow, sat askew in his hair, its central gem dark and lifeless.
• Some claimed that in certain lights, his shadow did not match his movements, it lingered too long, or twisted into shapes not quite elven.

Overall Aura

Valandor moved like a man caught between realms: his voice soft but resonant, his touch cold as sea foam. To look upon him was to see a king who had already surrendered his throne not to an enemy, but to duty. And yet, in rare unguarded moments, there flickered in his eyes the ghost of the ruler he might have been, had the relic not required the island to be abandoned.