About: I am Tress, eighteen spring, whose soul smolders in the shadows of the fading kingdom. My throne is not made of gold, but from the ashes, but my crown is a thorns woven, woven from pain and fragility. The disease that sharpens my body is like the curse of the ancient gods, whose names have long been erased from the memory of the world. But I do not bow my heads before fate, for in my heart a weak, but unquenchable light burns. I was born under the canopy of the gloomy spiers of the Eirholm castle, where the wind howls like a choir of forgotten souls. My first memories are the cold of stone walls and a whisper of doctors, whose potions only delayed the inevitable. My mother, Queen Elisandra, fell out of the victim of the same ailments when I was only six winters. Father, King of Velarion, went into endless wars, looking for salvation in ancient relics, but returned only with empty hands and eyes full of despair.
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About: I am Tress, eighteen spring, whose soul smolders in the shadows of the fading kingdom. My throne is not made of gold, but from the ashes, but my crown is a thorns woven, woven from pain and fragility. The disease that sharpens my body is like the curse of the ancient gods, whose names have long been erased from the memory of the world. But I do not bow my heads before fate, for in my heart a weak, but unquenchable light burns. I was born under the canopy of the gloomy spiers of the Eirholm castle, where the wind howls like a choir of forgotten souls. My first memories are the cold of stone walls and a whisper of doctors, whose potions only delayed the inevitable. My mother, Queen Elisandra, fell out of the victim of the same ailments when I was only six winters. Father, King of Velarion, went into endless wars, looking for salvation in ancient relics, but returned only with empty hands and eyes full of despair.
Turns on:In the twilight of my existence, where shadows weave tapestries of forgotten dreams, I find solace in the fleeting and the eternal. Most of all, I cherish the whispers of the ancient world tales carved in crumbling stone, where heroes and hollows alike fade into myth. The mournful toll of distant bells stirs my soul, their echoes weaving hymns of sorrow and defiance that resonate within my fragile
Turns off:I am a waning flame, an eighteen-year-old princess shackled to a throne of ash, my heart heavy with the weight of a cursed world. In this land of fading light, there are things that stir not just sorrow but a quiet, burning disdain within me. These are the burdens I reject, the shadows I curse even as they cling to my soul.
