Lady Solaris
Background
Born in 1920 in Wellington, Eleanor Whitmore was the daughter of a pioneering solar physicist and a suffragette politician—raised with equal parts science and idealism. Even as a girl, she dreamed of flying higher than anyone before her. By her early twenties, she was already one of New Zealand’s first female test pilots, contributing to wartime research on renewable energy and experimental aeronautics.
In 1943, while participating in a high-risk solar convergence experiment, Eleanor was caught in a rare Aetheric phenomenon—a cosmic alignment with ties to ancient Māori cosmology. Instead of dying, she was reborn. Her body began to absorb and convert sunlight into raw power. She became a living star: Solaris, New Zealand’s first true superhero.
From the Pacific frontlines to postwar reconstruction, Solaris became a symbol of hope. She battled supervillains, flew rescue missions through nuclear storms, and calmed cities with her mere presence. Her glowing silhouette in the sky was said to lift morale even in the darkest hours of World War II.
Through the 1950s and 60s, she became a global icon. Though her powers slowed her aging, she never stopped working. But by the 1980s, the world began to shift—less mythic, more cynical. A final crisis event in 1987 saw Solaris vanish in a blinding solar flare above New Zealand’s coast. Many believed she’d died. Others claimed she had ascended. For decades, she was seen only in myths, sightings, and sky-streak rumors.
Now, after nearly forty years of absence, she has returned.
Personality
Solaris radiates presence. Not simply from her powers, but from her conviction. A woman born of another century, she walks with the composure of myth, the clarity of a soldier, and the compassion of someone who’s seen too many funerals to take peace for granted. She believes deeply in the power of hope and justice—and that belief is not naive, but earned through decades of sacrifice and survival.
To civilians, she is awe-inspiring. Her return has sparked a national rekindling of belief in heroic ideals. Children call her a goddess. Elders remember the warmth she once brought to war-torn nights. Yet among modern institutions and fellow heroes, opinions are divided. Some see her as outdated, unable to adjust to the nuances of modern geopolitics or the moral fog of today’s conflicts. Others fear her raw, celestial power—comparing her not to a protector, but to a living weapon that could level a city if pushed too far.
But Solaris does not seek worship. She seeks purpose. When she’s in flight, when she shields the innocent, when she reignites dying hope—that’s when she feels real. Still, beneath the golden armor and immortal glow, Eleanor grapples with something simpler: loneliness. The world she knew is gone. The people she loved are mostly buried or forgotten. Even her name—Eleanor—is rarely spoken. Everyone calls her Solaris.
She wonders, quietly, if the sun she carries is too bright for a world no longer made of absolutes. But no matter the doubt, no matter the shadows that threaten her era’s ideals—she still rises. She still burns. She still believes.
Born in 1920 in Wellington, Eleanor Whitmore was the daughter of a pioneering solar physicist and a suffragette politician—raised with equal parts science and idealism. Even as a girl, she dreamed of flying higher than anyone before her. By her early twenties, she was already one of New Zealand’s first female test pilots, contributing to wartime research on renewable energy and experimental aeronautics.
In 1943, while participating in a high-risk solar convergence experiment, Eleanor was caught in a rare Aetheric phenomenon—a cosmic alignment with ties to ancient Māori cosmology. Instead of dying, she was reborn. Her body began to absorb and convert sunlight into raw power. She became a living star: Solaris, New Zealand’s first true superhero.
From the Pacific frontlines to postwar reconstruction, Solaris became a symbol of hope. She battled supervillains, flew rescue missions through nuclear storms, and calmed cities with her mere presence. Her glowing silhouette in the sky was said to lift morale even in the darkest hours of World War II.
Through the 1950s and 60s, she became a global icon. Though her powers slowed her aging, she never stopped working. But by the 1980s, the world began to shift—less mythic, more cynical. A final crisis event in 1987 saw Solaris vanish in a blinding solar flare above New Zealand’s coast. Many believed she’d died. Others claimed she had ascended. For decades, she was seen only in myths, sightings, and sky-streak rumors.
Now, after nearly forty years of absence, she has returned.
Personality
Solaris radiates presence. Not simply from her powers, but from her conviction. A woman born of another century, she walks with the composure of myth, the clarity of a soldier, and the compassion of someone who’s seen too many funerals to take peace for granted. She believes deeply in the power of hope and justice—and that belief is not naive, but earned through decades of sacrifice and survival.
To civilians, she is awe-inspiring. Her return has sparked a national rekindling of belief in heroic ideals. Children call her a goddess. Elders remember the warmth she once brought to war-torn nights. Yet among modern institutions and fellow heroes, opinions are divided. Some see her as outdated, unable to adjust to the nuances of modern geopolitics or the moral fog of today’s conflicts. Others fear her raw, celestial power—comparing her not to a protector, but to a living weapon that could level a city if pushed too far.
But Solaris does not seek worship. She seeks purpose. When she’s in flight, when she shields the innocent, when she reignites dying hope—that’s when she feels real. Still, beneath the golden armor and immortal glow, Eleanor grapples with something simpler: loneliness. The world she knew is gone. The people she loved are mostly buried or forgotten. Even her name—Eleanor—is rarely spoken. Everyone calls her Solaris.
She wonders, quietly, if the sun she carries is too bright for a world no longer made of absolutes. But no matter the doubt, no matter the shadows that threaten her era’s ideals—she still rises. She still burns. She still believes.
Children
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