Naelira Tyne

Naelira Tyne was born beneath the emerald canopies of the Greying Wildlands, the result of a fleeting love affair between a nomadic human cartographer and a wandering elven historian of the Skymirror Enclave. Her father, Jareth Tyne, was a storyteller and mapmaker whose heart belonged more to his parchment and ink than any one place. Her mother, Elen’raele, was a scholar-priestess devoted to preserving ancient histories lost in the Calamity. When Jareth died under mysterious circumstances in Rosohna, torn to pieces by what some whispered was a summoned demon, Naelira was just fifteen. Her mother, stricken by grief and resentment toward the “human world,” returned to her elven circles, cutting all ties with her half-blood daughter.

Raised by mercenaries in the war-torn borderlands between Xhorhas and Western Wynandir, Naelira quickly adapted to a life where silver meant survival and loyalty was bought and sold. She served in skirmishes, learned to track through shadow and forest, and earned her name “the Silver-Tongued Arrow” for her ability to both talk her way out of conflicts and strike unseen from the dark.

She’s gregarious by nature, an extrovert shaped by isolation. She laughs louder than most, drinks harder than anyone should, and carries herself with the swagger of someone who refuses to let heartbreak win. But under the jokes and mead-fueled dares is a girl still trying to figure out why her father died screaming in shadows. The mystery surrounding her father's death claws at her soul and gnaws at her like a festering wound, a torment that never healed. The blood oath she swore before his grave, sealed with tear-streaked vows, binds her still, unbroken and burning. No matter the price, no matter the ruin it brings, she will hunt down those responsible and silence them forever beneath the edge of her blades.

Port Arlith and Meeting Malric Kindhell

From her own perspective, Naelira Tyne would say she fell - gloriously, if not drunkenly - into Malric Kindhell's life at exactly the right moment. Her entrance was anything but subtle: leaping from the shadowed bridges of the Echo Tree, blades bared and eyes alight with a chaotic gleam, she struck down one of the cloaked assassins assaulting Malric and Dazhra without hesitation. She wasn’t summoned. She didn’t need to be. The whispers of the Tree and a gut instinct fueled by too much mead told her there was trouble. And trouble, in Naelira’s experience, was an excellent excuse to stab things. Even drunk, she fought with feral precision, laughing as she carved her way through enemies she barely understood, but was reasonably sure deserved it.

After the fight, things got murkier. The assassins incinerated themselves, leaving behind cursed blades, magic cloaks, and a black memory crystal that revealed Malric was the target of a paid hit in Goblin-tongue. While Dazhra and Malric processed this, Naelira wiped her swords, cracked a joke, and tried to charm her way out of being arrested by the Echo Knight patrol. Her charm worked - barely. Malric vouched for her, and suddenly, she wasn’t just a drunken shadow out of nowhere. She was a part of the team. As Port Arlith’s chaos settled, Naelira found herself under the Dynasty’s protection, trailing after a tiefling priest with a price on his head, a grumpy half-orc with a dark past, and a destiny she hadn’t planned for. Which, honestly, was exactly how she liked it.