Ysilra “Featherfall” Naethwyn
Ysilra was born in Milvelin, a place so steeped in magic that reality sometimes forgot itself. For most of her life, that strangeness didn’t feel special — it was just home. The trees glowed faintly at night, the rivers hummed with unseen music, and people treated enchantment like weather.
She never felt like she belonged there. Not because she wasn’t capable of wielding magic — she was — but because none of it meant anything to her. The debates, the artistry, the endless talk about balance and beauty — it all felt like a cage made of elegance.
When the world outside began falling apart after the Abericlase collapse, Milvelin stayed quiet, pretending the chaos would never reach its twilight borders. Ysilra grew restless. The calmness of her people felt like denial.
So, one day, she just left. No grand cause, no exile. She packed a few things, walked to the edge of the woods, and kept walking.
She crossed through Nocturnis, through the scarred lands that still smelled of magic and war, and eventually reached the desert edges near Hajul , where she found a half-orc traveler trying to organize stranded couriers into something that resembled order.
Loryn Trav didn’t ask her why she was there, and she didn’t offer. But when he handed her a treaty written in three languages, all wrong, she corrected it without being asked. That was the start.
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