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The story began when the Greenwoods Tribe of Abandoned that lived near the shores of the Mother were rallying and preparing for a march to a war that a good third of the warriors and the people of the tribe did not agree with. Thesarin rose up against his tribal leader and was punished for his defiance, but the tribal elders had underestimated his popularity. Twenty swords and bows went with him into the woods, and more crept away in the night to follow. He sent his most trusted friend to warn the Twainfort. To his surprise, the young Mia Riven rode out to meet him herself, and treated with him with ruthless certainty. An arrangement was reached. Thesarin was not in love, but he knew competence when he saw it, and the only safety for their people was to combine. There were challenges. Many of the Greenwoods simply died. Others vanished into the Gray Forest and were never seen again. Some continually attacked the ones who remained with Thesarin's traveling camp, seeing them as deserters, hunting them for treachery. The Countess of Twainfort stood against the liege of her warded liege and begged the Bislands not to march on her betrothed. Thesarin married Mia Riven and took her name and the Countship she offered him when she was 19 and he was 27. Thesarin was not in love, but he knew strength, and fortitude, and wisdom when he saw it . . . and, of course, it was the promise they had made. There were challenges. Combining the Greenwoods refugees with the people of the Twainfort and their environs was wildly difficult. Prodigals all, en masse, they struggled towards acceptance of new things that were expected of them. Most of them were confused about the religion of the Compact, though all abided by the Count's sworn oath that they would learn and try to grow. But Mia and Thesarin opened their halls to the confused and worked with people as best they could. They found ways to combine the traditions of Thesarin's people with the religion of the Compact. Adding a few more feasts or changing the way a few things could be done seemed a small price to pay for cooperation. Learn to work together. When their first child was born, three years into the marriage, they named her Vahari, after Thesarin's mother. At that point, Thesarin was in love. The baby had him wrapped around her tiny fingers instantly. Two children later, there is nothing stronger in Thesarin's heart than his ties to his children. Meanwhile, the last ten years have been spent slowly building a stronger, warmer relationship between both halves of the Twain at the Twainfort.

Thesarin is all hard strength and delicate artistry. When bared, his torso is sculpted of raw muscle and lean constraint, etched with rings and twisting circles of tattoo art in coppery hue. The twists of those geometric patterns represent battles fought and survived, children born, chaos withstood: each a lesson of wisdom learned to sear a new line of ink over his skin. His broad shoulders and back reflect more of that continuing pattern. When fully clothed -- and sleeved -- according to the more sedate styles of Arvum life, only the peek of a few dark lines escape around the column of his throat like tiny serpents coiling around the muscles of his neck. His eyebrows are heavy and dark, pulling down over deepset eyes whose hue and clarity are of a deep, dark green. His lips are thin, his jaw strong, the height and breadth of his cheekbones suggesting more of the sculpted strength that defines his chest and back. His hair is long, falling loose to his shoulders, its color a brown so dark it is nearly black. When caught in the sunlight, its hue warms with reddish glints that complement his bronzen skin. When he speaks, his voice has a deep resonance, and carries with it the echo of a lupine growl never entirely lost.

Thesarin has a quiet intensity to him that makes his inner pragmatism seem surprising at times. He tends to long silences, to a brooding fierceness that can make him difficult to relate to for those of lighter heart. His sense of humor exists, but it is restrained, spent rarely. He takes responsibility and duty very seriously but typically comes at most problems with an open perspective. He casts himself in the role of useful outsider frequently, for it is a role that life seems designed for him, for all that he has been a Count of Twainfort for many years now. There's a deep force behind his reserve, a temper that can be terrifying when his control is lost, but generally his reserve is more powerful than all but the highest of aggravations. There's a sense of drama behind his careful quiet; he uses words precisely and to the point, and the effect can be arresting, far more so than a man who speaks much more.