_____________________________ _____________________________ - B A S I C I N F O - N A M E. Eryndor Caelir Lunevere A G E. 24 G E N D E R. FeMale S E X U A L I T Y. Homosexual T I T L E. Vicountess Caelir Lunevere | _________________________________ - P E R S O N A L I T Y - Softspoken | Empathetic | Discreet | Resourceful | Patient | Loyal Eryndor rarely raises his voice, preferring a quiet, measured tone. This isn't due to shyness, but rather a conscious choice to foster a sense of calm and encourage others to listen. He is a master of subtlety and highly observant, noticing details that others miss. He prefers to work behind the scenes, using his knowledge and connections to influence events without attracting undue attention. Though gentle in spirit, Eryndor is not weak. He is highly efficient and resourceful, able to accomplish difficult tasks with minimal fuss. He understands the value of information and uses it wisely. Once Eryndor commits to a cause or person, he is fiercely loyal and dedicated. He will go to great lengths to protect those he cares about, though his methods may be unconventional. | _____________________________ - A P P E R A N C E - H A I R. Blond H E I G H T / W E I G H T. 5'7" - 165 E Y E S. Grey-blue B O D Y M A R K S. He bears the mark of Caelira on his left shoulder blade.https://i.pinimg.com/736x/a8/3a/c9/a83ac9de469cedad6219c2640a92a21c.jpg |
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_______________________________________________ Eryndor Caelir Lunevere was never meant to wear a crown—or a veil. He was born under an eclipse tide, when the moons of Delicana aligned over the Tidelands and the sea shimmered with unnatural stillness. The temple bells rang, not in warning, but in wonder. For hours after his birth, the waves would not move, and even the gulls fell silent. The priestesses said it was Caelira herself who marked the child—that dreams would cling to him like salt to skin. His mother, a quiet woman of sharp intellect and softer heart, died the same night he drew breath. Some say the sea took her soul as payment for the prophecy Eryndor would become. His father, Lord Serath Lunevere, did not cry. He simply handed the child to the nursemaids and walked into the fog. The child was raised not by warmth, but by obligation and expectation. When he cried, no lullaby came—only hymns. When he walked, it was through shrines of moonlit stone. And when he dreamed, it was always of mirrors, drowning brides, and voices that hummed through water like distant bells. At age six, he was sent to the Temple of Slumbering Glass, a half-drowned sanctum where Caelira’s chosen were trained. For three years, Eryndor studied dreamcraft, mirror-rites, and the art of spiritual silence. When he returned, he spoke less. Smiled less. But he walked with the measured grace of someone who had seen what waited beyond the veil—and survived it. They said he was touched. And in House Lunevere, touched meant useful. He was twelve when the family’s fortunes turned. One of his elder brothers drowned in a storm. Another vanished during a failed treaty voyage. By fifteen, Eryndor had become the only living heir to a house with shattered coffers and crumbling credibility. But it was the winter of his fourteenth year that changed him most. He had a vision—a vivid one. A drowning bride in green silk, her hair coiling like seaweed, her face a blur. A bleeding moon overhead. And the sea whispering in a language no mortal throat could echo. He told his father and the priest-aunts. None listened. Three ships sank that month. His younger brother—barely ten—was aboard one of them. Eryndor never again shared what he saw in sleep. And yet, beneath the weight of prophecy and duty, there was something warmer. Something gentle. Three younger sisters, each born after tragedy, whose laughter echoed like sunlight through stormglass. He adored them. He taught them how to read the stars. He let them braid his hair in secret. He left them gifts in their pillowcases: moonstones, pressed flowers, ribbon charms with protective runes. When he held them, he became less heir and more brother. He wore his tenderness like armor, knowing the world would strip it from them one day too. They were the reason he agreed to the marriage. When the proposal came from House Nymere, mistaken in thinking Lunevere had an eligible daughter, Eryndor had laughed—bitter and bright. But when it became clear that declining would mean political collapse, famine for their region, and debt that would crush his sisters’ futures, he chose. He let them dress him. He let them bind him, veil him, strip him of name and form and truth, because survival, in Delicana, was not about pride. It was about sacrifice. And if he had to become a bride to protect the three lives that still carried light from his mother’s eyes, then so be it. | _______________________________________________________  |
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| ____________________________________________ L I K E S. - Moonlit walks - Art, painting - Listening to the ocean - Playing with his little sisters; Elis, Enora, and Elaine D I S L I K E S. - Agression - Summer heat - Being the center of attention | ____________________________________________ H O B B I E S. - Playing the piano - Art - Botany |
