The elder, Lyssandra of the Dawn Gleam, carries herself with poise and a quiet strength.
Her wings are like amber glass, shaped by the first rays of morning light, and her gift lies in
coaxing warmth into sleeping things — flowers closed too soon, hearts gone cold.
She is the keeper of beginnings.
ᚠᚨᛁᚱᛁ ᚹᚨᚱᛁᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛁᛞᚨ ᛋᛁᛚᛖᚾᛏ
Together they wander the Western Glades of Solmirath — a realm where dusk lingers long and golden, where even the stillest pond glows faintly with their reflection.
It was during one of my sleepless wanderings that I first found them — not summoned, not sought, but waiting at the edge of a dream I hadn’t yet entered.
ᛖᛁᚱᚨ ᚠᚨᛁᚱᛁᚱᚢᚾᛖ ᛞᚱᚨᚷᚩᚾ
They were born in the hush between sunset and nightfall, when the air itself holds its breath — one to guard the flame, the other to whisper to it.
Where wonders begin
ᚠᚨᚱᛁᚱᚢᚾᛖ ᛚᚣᛋᛋᚨᚾᛞᚱᚨ
ᚹᚨᛏᛖᚱ ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ ᛋᛁᛚᛖᚾᛏ
They belong to that place my sleepless mind drifts toward — where stories burn softly, and the light never fully goes out.
The younger, Eira of the Ember Vale, is laughter and mischief embodied. Her golden wings flicker brighter when she is near dragons — tiny guardians that trail her through the forest, sparks in their throats and secrets in their eyes. Eira is the wild one, unafraid of fire, unafraid of shadow.
ᚷᚱᚩᚡᛖ ᚷᚢᚨᚱᛞᛁᚨᚾ
