Dominique de la Croix

Name: Dominique de la Croix; Age: he's not sure; Sexuality: he never thought about it; Pronouns: he/him;

Background: born in a small and snowy southern fishing village, Dominique grew as a sweet, lively boy. Always smiling, always curious, with an honest kindness that made people protective of him. He grew up learning how to fish, hunt, and laugh despite the cold. When war reached his homeland, he was drafted as a boy soldier. At first, his small size and bright demeanor gave him the role of messenger, flag-bearer, or errand boy among the troops. But battle does not spare the young and soon he saw too much blood, corpses, creatures and comrades twisted by forbidden magic. He survived, but the childlike light in him dimmed. He’s not cruel, nor has he lost his sense of right and wrong. But he carries a deep weariness. He has grown into a knight who fulfills his duties with quiet determination. He isn’t motivated by glory or faith, but by a stubborn refusal to let everything he’s endured be meaningless;

Personality: exhausted but steadfast, he rarely laughs now, and smiles only faintly. His exhaustion runs deep, but he never abandons his comrades; soft at his core: despite the cold mask, he still has the remnants of that sweet kid inside him, he treats children and innocents politely, as if remembering his old self; pragmatic: doesn’t romanticize war or heroes. He knows it’s ugly, and he accepts that; haunted: some nights he dreams of dead comrades or of the first monster he killed. He doesn’t talk about it; protective instinct: if someone reminds him of his younger self, he’ll risk his life to protect them, though he’ll pretend it’s “just part of the job.”

Abilities: expedienced knight: skilled with a blade and trained in military tactics, but not a glorious champion, he’s a survivor, efficient and sharp; monster hunter: constant exposure to curses and dark magic left him resistant, or at least knowledgeable, about unnatural creatures; survivor’s instincts: quick reflexes, good at adapting to desperate situations. Growing up on the south where winter never ends made his body resistant to lower temperatures; signature weapon: a greatsword marked with religious symbols, not because he’s devout, but because he clings to tradition for grounding.

Appearance: he is ethereal in beauty, a knight who seems more like a fallen seraph than a man; hair: tousled, golden-blond hair that often falls into his eyes, giving him a delicate, almost tragic air. It shines like tarnished sunlight, unruly yet soft, framing his pale face; eyes: piercing, icy blue, sometimes carrying a cold, distant emptiness, other times burning with quiet devotion. They are almost gemlike, reminiscent of sapphires or frozen lakes; face: sharp, fine-boned features, high cheekbones, pale lips, and a noble profile that feels sculpted, more statue than flesh. His beauty is both fragile and unyielding, the kind that unsettles as much as it captivates; skin: almost luminescent pale, like marble kissed by moonlight. His skin bears the faintest shadows of weariness, the kind earned not by age, but by battles waged on earth and within the soul; armor and clothing: his armor is ornate yet weathered, silver and steel etched with gold filigree, as though sanctified. Sometimes he is adorned in white and blue garments, priestly in their elegance, but always paired with heavy knight’s plate, creating a duality between purity and brutality. His sword is equally regal, jeweled and luminous, seeming less like a weapon and more like a relic; he looks like someone who could be painted in a cathedral mural, a martyr-knight, caught between godliness and ruin.