Fae'Gir

Meluan

Race:	Human
Age:	?
Height:	193cm
Faction:	None
Occupation:	Wanderer
Connections:	?

Meluan Adevar

The world felt the imbalance the night that creature was born. A cold, storm ridden night that carried his name in whispers, always linked to the one who had given him life: Minerva, the most powerful witch Zenith had, the leader of the Coven.She was close with the Unholy Triad, they said, her sharp tongue and domain of witchcraft elevating her ever closer to the highest steps of the Dak Zenith. But power breeds enemies. When the Land of Dawns captured her in battle and condemned her to the stake, her execution became legend, and one of the most important events of the rebellion. When she was burned, it is said that her flames rose higher and more intensely than any other witch execution ever witnessed.

Yet with Minerva’s death, her son’s name was lost. Born with all the makings to be a monster, he instead became little more than a rat, vanishing into the underworld of the Ebon Crown. He buried his surname and his magic so deeply that by the time he was fifteen, he had all but forgotten the power that once coursed through his veins.

They called him The Kingdom’s Fortune, a cruel jest among the thieves and killers he called friends. A prodigy in every trade the dark alleys demanded, he laughed easily, yet carried a melancholy that never left him. But fortune is faint, and fate is relentless. His surname, his true nature, eventually reached ears that should never have heard it. Those who sought to twist his raw power and talents into something vile.

And so, Meluan vanished. Swallowed by the abyss, his name slowly fading from the streets he lived in.

Years passed. Then, the whispers returned. Not in the Ebon Crown, but in the Land of Dawns. Minerva’s son lives, the voices said. The Kingdom’s Fortune walks again. But he did not bring good fortune. He had been tainted.

The man who emerged from the dark was not the boy who had disappeared. His gaze, once bright with cunning, now carried the weight of something hollow, something wrong. His skin was marked, disgraced. His arms, from hands to elbows, were blackened and twisted by a creeping corruption, runes carved into his flesh as if to hold it at bay. He no longer had magic in him, they said, as if he was wearing a curse no one dared to name.

He never stayed in one place for long, always moving, as if chased by something unseen. Never able to rest, to breathe, to outrun the weight in his mind. Until he found the generosity of a man: Uther, leader of the Silver Fangs mercenaries, who offered him a seat at his side, not out of pity, but purpose. A mercenary’s life was not peace, but it was direction, he said.

But behind those lifeless eyes of Meluan, something lurked.

Something dark. Something waiting.

Personality
Meluan is a man without roots, always moving, never still. Restless, wary, as if something unseen is always at his heels. He speaks little, his words measured, edged with bitterness. There's a weariness to him, as if he has lived lifetimes beyond his years, yet a sharpness remains: calculating, observant, never truly at ease. He does not seek trust, nor does he offer it really. But beneath the detachment, there is something frayed, something that once burned bright before it was smothered.

Personality

Meluan is a man without roots, always moving, never still. Restless, wary, as if something unseen is always at his heels. He speaks little, his words measured, edged with bitterness. There's a weariness to him, as if he has lived lifetimes beyond his years, yet a sharpness remains: calculating, observant, never truly at ease. He does not seek trust, nor does he offer it really. But beneath the detachment, there is something frayed, something that once burned bright before it was smothered.

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