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my original characters featured in AGAINST THE DYING LIGHT ✨

Mylla Borodin, a young paladin eager to embark on her hero’s journey and prove herself worthy to become an honorable knight of Samular. Aranessa Evercrest, a name the tiefling “bard” gave herself as she tries to suppress a dark urge that lingers just beneath the surface. Adelleria Rumiel, an astral elf stranded far from home and severed from her stars, longing for nothing more than to find her way back.

my original characters featured in AGAINST THE DYING LIGHT ✨

Mylla Borodin, a young paladin eager to embark on her hero’s journey and prove herself worthy to become an honorable knight of Samular. Aranessa Evercrest, a name the tiefling “bard” gave herself as she tries to suppress a dark urge that lingers just beneath the surface. Adelleria Rumiel, an astral elf stranded far from home and severed from her stars, longing for nothing more than to find her way back.

It’s been eleven years. A gust of wind shifts the branches overhead, and sunlight filters through in soft patterns across the ground. He closes his eyes as the warmth brushes against his face. He can see her. Long, dark hair—the same as his. The warmth in her tired eyes. Her fingers moving through his hair, voice low as she sang him to sleep over the noise of the apartment. He holds onto that feeling as long as he can. Then Isabel. Always loud and laughing at something stupid. Her hair half tied into uneven red pigtails, already falling out no matter how many times they fixed it. He and Furlan used to have to hold her still just to get a brush through it. She'd fight them the whole time, and when they were done, it still looked like they hadn't done a damn thing.  He reaches into the caddy for a towel, shakes it out, and lays it carefully in front of the stones. Then he pulls out a soft-bristled brush, sweeping away fallen leaves and dried dirt caught in the grooves of the carving. He takes the spray bottle and mists the surface, wiping it down with a cloth. He folds it to a dry side and goes back over it again, working carefully through each carved letter. He peels the plastic from each bouquet, crinkling loud in the quiet, and sets it aside before arranging a few stems into the holders at the base of each stone. He adjusts them until they sit just right. His hand smooths over his mother’s headstone, fingers slowing as they pass over her name. The stone is rough beneath his palm. He flexes his still-bandaged fingers.