⌒⌒⠀⠀Hernando Romero⠀⠀ ့⠀⠀⠀IDV

“ Resolute in leaving his timid past behind, Hernando Romero pushes ever closer to the edge of danger. To him, only the applause won at the brink between life and death is true glory. „

Basic... Name: Hernando Romero Career: Matador Gender: Male Nationality: Spanish Age: 20s

Past... Resolute in leaving his timid past behind, Hernando Romero pushes ever closer to the edge of danger. To him, only the applause won at the brink between life and death is true glory. Hernando Romero was born in a small town in southern Spain. From the moment memory took root, his world was painted in two colors—roaring cheers and spilled blood. Bullfighting, the game of the fearless, was the ancestral glory his family had carried for generations. Restless and full of life, Hernando was the child everyone pinned their hopes on. He had an almost instinctive sense for danger; the family said he was born for the ring. But as a boy, when he first slipped into the bullring unnoticed—longing to see under the blistering sun the heroic tale of his father that the streets seemed to breathe—it was not legend that he found. It was slaughter. A brutal clash of life against death. And lying in the sand, a muleta redder than the sunset. He wept at the sight of death. The adults who once doted on him couldn't hide their disappointment, and "coward" became the jeering name that clung to him like a scar. To correct that "unacceptable" fear, his family handed him over to his uncle, a retired matador, broken and maimed, who drilled him with merciless discipline. Under the constant refrain of "Now THAT is my brave boy," Hernando ground his panic into silence and carved skill into his bones. He learned how to stand when death was certain. How to fight. How to shield another. How to kill. How to die in the name of glory. And most of all, how to twist the shadow of danger into a heady rush that made his heart pound with feral pleasure. Years later, beneath a golden dusk, Hernando took his uncle's estoque and muleta, stepping into the sand as a matador in full. His precise cuts, his practiced grace, drew a deafening tide of applause from the stands. And in that instant, a smile flickered across his face, the very same smile his father had worn the day he died. Whatever sorrow he had once known was gone. All that remained was envy. His father's death had procured praise, recognition, and an intoxicating frenzy. The crowd adored the man who danced with death. They applauded the one who could dress fear in the shroud of romance and honor. Hernando was celebrated as a rising star, his fearless swagger and ever more dangerous performances setting the land ablaze with delirium. But every edge dulls. When the flowers lost their luster, and the swelling cheers turned hollow, a chance opening led him away from the burning sun and into darkness. Hernando discovered duels without pageantry, where the only stake was his life. He thrived on each heartbeat of danger, living for the taste of dread and the thrill of survival, no rules and no rituals to cage him. And when he began to worry that the poisoned wine named "danger" and "fear" would one day stop quenching his thirst, a letter arrived. It demanded no hesitation. Hernando set his course for the infamous manor, where he could sate his hunger, let his blood boil once more, and claim new glories that would belong to him alone.

“ ¡There is no room for cowards in a matador's blood! „

Physique... Hernando is a slim, fair-skinned man with an athletic build, tape brown hair in a mullet style, and a scarred chin. His face is slightly square, bearing a squared nose, medium-thickness eyebrows, and rectangular, olive eyes. There are freckles beneath his eyes, rosy cheeks, and a scar from the bottom of his chin to the left corner of his upper lip. Another scar is visible beneath his right sleeve, running diagonally from below his forearm to the top. His brown curly hair was casually draped over his shoulders, and the tan lines on his cheeks were badges of honor from embracing the scorching sun in the bullring. His energetic and cheerful smile was always infectious, and his flamboyant enthusiasm was almost overwhelming.

“Oletus? Heh, just another bullring! This time, I wager my life! So my heart can beat a little hotter! „