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Character profileLiora Mylen
Currently offline Description of the characterPhysical description: Petite and slender, with a delicate build shaped by hard work. Her skin is a soft, freckled tan from long hours in the fields. She has long, ash-brown hair usually braided or tied simply. Her large, pale green eyes give her a perpetually wondering, gentle expression. Apparel: Wears humble linen dresses in muted earth tones, often with a thin wool shawl or apron. Hand-me-down boots, worn but carefully maintained. Carries a satchel with her journal and charcoal sticks. Distinguishing features: - A tiny crescent-shaped scar on her right hand from a childhood accident with a sickle.
Story of the character𓆩♡𓆪 "I came chasing hope... and walked straight into a nightmare." 𓆩♡𓆪 Her mother had scraped together the coin with trembling hands and whispered prayers, believing that sending her daughter to Illarion meant offering her a better life. A land of magic, they said. Of rebirth. But magic often keeps company with monsters. Liora stepped from the ferry onto the cobblestone path of Trolls Haven, a small island off the fabled peninsula. The ocean wind smelled of brine and distance. Her satchel was light, her hopes uncertain. A single large building rose against the low mist—the Hemp Necktie Inn. She followed the path with quiet resolve, boots tapping a rhythm to calm her nerves. But the moment she opened the door, the air inside turned against her. Music played, but not truly. It was a soulless tune—basic, emotionless, played by hands that no longer cared to feel. The bard's eyes were vacant, and those gathered in the inn spoke only in whispers, if at all. Laughter had no place here. No one welcomed her, not even the dwarven barkeep, who didn’t lift his head nor reach for a mug. The room, full of people, made her feel utterly alone. Every inch of her body whispered *leave.* So she tried. But the door had already become a trap. Two figures stood just outside—waiting. One in tattered robes with a voice like rust and a smile too wide. The other... something else. Cloaked. Silent. A presence that felt like the void itself had stepped forward in mortal guise. Before she could flee, they saw her—and they *knew*. The door was slammed shut, locking her inside with the weight of what was coming. They entered with the calm of hunters. The robed man named himself Theodor Brightrim, a so-called master alchemist. He spoke of potions and beauty, of offers masked as kindness. But the room, the moment, the *man beside him*—none of it was chance. Liora, though humble and trembling, had always felt things others couldn’t. A perception just shy of prophetic. And now that sense screamed at her: *this man, this silence, this moment*—none of it was ordinary. The cloaked one said little. But the very air obeyed him. He did not have to speak to command. He bent the room by presence alone, like death in disguise, veiled just enough not to shatter minds. They gave her a choice that wasn’t one at all: drink the potion—or deliver it, along with a sealed letter, to the market in Cadomyr. Surveillance was promised. Failure was implied as consequence. And so, Liora nodded, trembling, stuffing the bottle and parchment into her bag without a word. She left the Hemp Necktie Inn not as a newcomer to a strange land, but as a marked soul—someone now tethered to machinations far beyond her grasp. She still walks like a quiet girl from the fields, ash-brown braid down her back and satchel clutched close. But her eyes have changed. They watch the shadows. They no longer hope—they survive. Illarion was supposed to be her second chance. Instead, it opened its mouth and swallowed her whole.
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