“Time does not forgive the ones it forgets.”

Rules of Contact

“She wears memory like armor and guilt like perfume.”

Dossier.

“Her story isn’t written in ink. It’s carved in the places she’s left behind.”

History and Lore

“Not cursed. Not chosen. Just… still here.”

  Origins & Early Life – “Born Between Moonlight and Ink”  
Rayven Zonneschijn was born during an eclipse—an event the temple astrologers claimed was bad luck, but her mother, Serenya, chose to interpret as divine mystery. “She is a child caught between veils,” Serenya whispered, cradling her under silver light turned to shadow. In the moon-blessed temples of Thavnair, omens were taken seriously. A child born during the veiling of Menphina was said to belong neither fully to the divine nor the mortal world. And from the moment Rayven first opened her eyes—green as cut peridot, calm as still water—it was clear she would not belong easily to anything.Her mother was a priestess, well respected and quietly feared. Her voice could still storms during festival rites and her prayers were said to bloom flowers long after the season ended. Her faith was boundless. Unshaken. Rayven’s father, Avarin, was her opposite in every way—a scholar displaced from Dalmasca, once decorated for his academic brilliance, now a dusty archivist tucked in the temple’s back halls. Where Serenya walked with reverence, Avarin walked with questioning. He did not believe in signs or spirits. He believed in history, in truth, in the preservation of things others had tried to bury.Rayven was raised between them: the devout quiet of her mother’s altar and the ink-stained chaos of her father’s study. She learned to bow in prayer with one hand and turn parchment with the other. While other temple children played beneath courtyards washed in incense and sun, Rayven was kept close—guarded. Watched. Taught not to speak too loud or look too long at the elders when she asked a question. “Eyes down,” her mother would chide gently. “Your curiosity is a flame. Don’t let it burn your place in the temple.”But she could not help it. Her mind was always moving. Always reaching.By age six, she could recite the names of long-fallen gods in three dead languages. By eight, she was assisting her father in re-inking glyphs too delicate for the temple scribes to handle. And by ten, she had begun to write down dreams she could not explain—dreams where she wandered through silent ruins, where stars sang in voices she almost understood, where her fingers traced spells she had never been taught.The other children feared her. One girl shoved her during a morning chant, jealous of the way Rayven was allowed to sit at the front with the elders. Rayven didn’t cry. She didn’t raise a hand. She simply stood, looked into the girl’s eyes, and whispered something in a language none of the priests recognized. The girl screamed. Nothing touched her—but she screamed, as if something cold had passed through her. She never went near Rayven again.After that, Rayven was given her own study. For privacy, they said. For focus. But she knew what exile felt like—even in childhood.Still, she did not resent it.She had her books. Her scrolls. Her ink. And her father—who began taking her beyond the safety of temple walls. Into ruins half-swallowed by the jungle. Into shrines whose names had been struck from prayer. Into places where the wind carried stories instead of incense. There, he would kneel beside her, his voice low: “This is where the truth lives. Not behind gold-leafed curtains. But here. In what was left behind.”He taught her to question. Her mother taught her to listen. And Rayven tried to do both. But it became harder with every year.The temple tolerated brilliance, but not rebellion.When she asked why a certain name appeared scratched out in every holy text she touched, she was met with silence. When she uncovered a rite buried beneath a cracked mosaic in an abandoned archive hall, her father praised her discovery—but her mother wept. And when she began writing her own versions of temple prayers, not from disobedience but from a desire to understand, the elders stopped calling her gifted.They began calling her dangerous.And yet, she still believed there was beauty in it all.Her journals became her only trusted companion. Dozens of them, some bound in threadbare silk, others wrapped in oilskin. Inside: drawings of stars she'd never seen, runes that came to her in dreams, verses of poetry she couldn’t explain the origin of. There were moments—rare, quiet moments—where she wondered if the voices in her head were her own. If the magic she worked through words was truly hers… or something older, moving through her.But Rayven never feared the unknown.Not until it looked back.And when the time came—when the old rites whispered themselves too clearly to ignore, when her name was no longer spoken in the temple halls, when the fire inside her grew too bright to stay hidden—she would step willingly into the very shadows she had spent her life staring into.But that is another story.This, here, is where it begins: a child born between moonlight and ink. Loved, but misunderstood. Obedient, but curious. A daughter of reverence and rebellion, destined to lose everything… and survive.

  The Rite & the Remnant  
They say power has a price.Rayven had always believed that. Her mother had whispered it into every prayer; her father had written it in every margin. Power costs. Sometimes coin. Sometimes time. Sometimes something you don’t realize you’ve given away until it’s far too late to take it back.For Rayven, that price began with a name.She found it inscribed into the base of a fractured temple slab, buried beneath the western sanctum—half-scratched out, half-preserved by time. A name she didn't recognize but could not forget. It haunted her like a melody from a song no one taught her. She copied it down, hands trembling, and brought it to her father. He went pale. Silent. Locked the parchment away and said only, “Forget it. It’s too much.”But Rayven never forgot anything.Over the years, she uncovered more—fragments, echoes, footnotes buried beneath rituals and myths that had long since been struck from sacred texts. Every library she visited, every scribe she bribed, every scroll she read by moonlight filled in another piece. The rite she discovered was not just a spell. It was a transfiguration—a reshaping of the soul’s position within time and aether. A ritual that could stop aging. Unmoor death. Extend existence not by staving it off, but by rewriting the rules entirely.It was never recorded in full. But Rayven pieced it together anyway. From memory. From instinct. From dreams.And when it was whole, she did not hesitate.She performed the rite in a forgotten place—an abandoned shrine reclaimed by root and ruin, far from temple bells and watchful eyes. She chose the hour carefully: beneath a full moon partially veiled by mist, just like the night she was born. A night between clarity and shadow.The circle was drawn by hand using a mixture of starglass powder, ash, and her own blood. Each sigil carved into the stone seemed to draw breath from her chest, yet she pressed on, eyes wild with certainty. Her limbs shook. Her skin prickled. But her will did not waver.At the heart of the circle, she laid down four offerings:A lock of her hair, cut that morning—still warm from her neckA shattered relic from her mother’s altar, hidden in cloth and shameA torn page from her very first journal, ink faded, but the words rememberedAnd her Miqo’te tail, severed at the base—not with a blade, but with flame conjured by her own aether, scorching it from her body with a scream that burned the air itselfThat final offering was not symbolic. It was blood. Identity. Lineage. Her last tie to what she had been before.And then the names began.Words older than gods spilled from her lips—low, rhythmless, spoken in syllables not meant for mortal mouths. They weren’t incantations. They were keys, and every one she spoke unlocked another door behind her eyes. Cold light flared through the glyphs. Her breath caught. Her body snapped back like a string under tension—and she felt her soul stretch, separate, rewire.Time collapsed inward. Memory frayed. And for one endless second, Rayven stood behind her own body, watching it break.And then she fell.She woke to frost clinging to her lashes and the quiet weight of something permanent having left her. The ritual circle was gone. The offerings, vanished. Only a faint scar beneath her ribcage remained—one that no healing spell would ever smooth away.Her tail was gone.Her aging had stopped.And when she looked at her own reflection in the frozen basin beside her, her green eyes—always so sharp, so aware—seemed older than her face could justify. And infinitely quieter.She walked back to the temple, barefoot, blood-stained, silent.They did not welcome her.They called her cursed. Abomination. Unnatural. Her mother refused to look at her. The priests struck her name from the temple scrolls. The children who had once avoided her now crossed themselves in fear. There were whispers that she would bring ruin if allowed to stay.Rayven did not argue.She left that night. No blessings. No farewells. Just a single, silent walk out of the only home she had ever known, with nothing but her journals, a half-sealed spellbook, and the weight of a name she no longer felt she deserved.They tried to erase her.But Rayven remembered everything.

  Exile & Wandering  
She never knew if she chose the rite or if it had already chosen her.It began with a name she wasn’t supposed to find—half-scratched into the base of a forgotten altar, buried beneath the old temple library. A name that shouldn’t have survived sand or fire, but still pressed itself into the stone like it was waiting for her. She copied it down by candlelight, hands shaking, breath held, unsure why her fingers already knew the shape of the letters. Her father turned pale when he saw them. He locked the parchment in a drawer and warned her: Forget it. It’s too much.But Rayven never forgot anything.She spent years collecting the pieces. Scattered fragments from texts banned centuries ago. Half-sentences buried in footnotes. Broken diagrams painted over by more acceptable knowledge. Some of it came in dreams—others from scrolls that hummed when she touched them, as though they recognized something ancient and waiting in her blood. The rite came together slowly, reverently. Not like a spell, but like a language she had once spoken in another life.By the time it was whole, she understood what it would do.It was not immortality in the way stories tell it. It wasn’t about defeating death—it was about slipping beneath it. A quiet unbinding. A rewriting of her soul’s relationship to time and flesh. It would sever the part of her bound to decay and replace it with something older. Something unanchored. The price was not inked clearly in the instructions—only marked in red: something loved must be left behind.She prepared alone.The ritual circle was drawn in a collapsed ruin beneath the cliffs of Thavnair, a place half-eaten by jungle and long forgotten by priests. She chose the night carefully—a full moon, veiled by mist. The same kind of sky she was born under. A sky between clarity and shadow.The ink was mixed by hand: ash, powdered starglass, salt, and blood. The glyphs pulsed when her brush touched them, as if breathing. Each one took something from her: heat from her skin, breath from her chest, vision from the corners of her eyes. She did not stop.At the center of the circle, she laid four offerings.
A lock of her own hair.
A shattered relic from her mother’s altar.
A torn page from the first journal she ever kept.
And her tail—severed with aetherfire, not blade. Cut from her own spine in a flash of flame and silence. She did not scream. She did not cry. She only bowed her head and placed it on the stone, wrapped in black ribbon like a funeral gift.Then the chanting began.The names were not hers. They did not belong to any god still remembered. They were syllables that rang hollow in the air, not because they were wrong, but because the world no longer knew what to do with them. Each name felt like unlocking a door that should have remained shut. Each breath tasted older than her own.Light cracked through the circle like lightning frozen mid-strike. Her body convulsed. Her aether flared, then disappeared, then returned wrong. She felt her soul bend around her bones, then slip behind her. For a heartbeat, she stood outside herself—watching her own mouth move. And then the world folded in, and everything went dark.She awoke to frost on her lashes.The circle was gone. The offerings had vanished. Only her grimoire remained, open to a blank page that had not been blank when she last saw it. Her blood was cold. Her limbs heavy. Her breath came slower. She moved like a memory trying to pretend it still belonged in the present.She walked barefoot through the jungle.When she returned to the temple, there were no bells. No priests waiting. Her mother did not open the door. Her name had already been removed from the scrolls. She had not been gone a full day.She was declared cursed before she even spoke.Rayven did not argue. There was nothing to defend. The rite had worked. Her tail was gone. Her body no longer bore the rhythm of life. The temple elders looked at her and saw a question they did not want to answer. So they erased her.And she left.The road out of Thavnair was long, though she remembers very little of it. She passed through Radz-at-Han in silence. Bought ink. Food. New robes. No one recognized her. She did not offer her name.In the days that followed, she did not eat. In the weeks, she barely slept. Her body felt like a shadow trying to wear skin. She didn’t breathe the same. When she wept, the tears fell slow—too slow. She marked time only by the number of pages she filled.She traveled east, then west. Names became fluid. She was Scholar. Translator. Witch. Redbird. She lived in corners and ruin-shrines, taking shelter among dust and silence. She traded secrets for pages, blood for truth. She bound herself to nothing—not places, not people. Not anymore.And when years passed and her face did not change, she moved again. Quiet. Unnoticed. Endlessly aware of her own stillness in a world that kept turning.Eventually, she reached Sharlayan.There, she was not feared. She was studied. Her mind was cataloged. Her talents put to use. She taught classes in forgotten tongues. She translated texts no one else could touch. Her lectures were precise, elegant, bloodless. She wore their robes. She played the part.But she hated their coldness.They prized clarity over empathy. Progress over preservation. Knowledge over memory. They saw the past as a riddle to be solved, not a wound to be understood. When she mourned a burnt relic—a scripture they called “corrupted”—they warned her to control her attachments. When she asked to preserve it anyway, they called her inefficient.So she left.Not in anger. Not in grief. Just… quietly.Kugane welcomed her with less suspicion. There, she lived above a teahouse that didn’t mind the smell of old ink or the way her windows were never closed. She made coin translating cursed documents and brewing tinctures that calmed the dreams of samurai and ghosts alike. She wrote every day. In notebooks, on walls, on scraps of cloth. She marked everything with symbols no one else could read.She was no longer waiting to be remembered.She was trying not to be.But the past still pulled at her bones. The stars still whispered in languages she could not forget. Her name, though rarely spoken aloud, still echoed when she looked into a mirror too long. And though her body did not ache, her soul sometimes did.Eventually, the cherry blossoms stopped being enough.She packed her books. Her enchanted pouch. Her living grimoire. And she followed the snow.

  The Quiet Rebirth   
She followed the cold without knowing why.The first time Rayven stepped into Coerthas, the wind cut like a blade. It howled through her coat and bit at her cheeks, but she didn’t flinch. She welcomed it. There was something sacred in that kind of silence—in the snow-covered fields that forgot your footsteps the moment you passed. Here, the world remembered nothing.It suited her.The White Moon Pack found her first. Or rather, she found them—watching from a distant ridge as they trained in the snow, moving like ghosts through trees thick with ice. They were wild, beautiful, feral in a way that civilization had forgotten. They knew the scent of blood in the air. They knew how to endure.She never meant to speak to them.But she lingered too long, and they caught her scent.She remembers the moment vividly: surrounded by three warriors, spears drawn, no words exchanged—only the scent of old magic rising off her skin like perfume, and the way their Alpha stepped forward, curious but wary.Rayven didn’t flinch when he circled her.She simply looked up and said, “I’m not your enemy. I’m just trying to stop disappearing.”Perhaps it was the way she said it. Perhaps it was the way she didn’t lie.They did not welcome her—not right away. But they let her stay.At first, they treated her as a guest. Then a curiosity. Then a secret.Eventually, a sister.She built her home on the outskirts of their territory, nestled against a jagged slope where the snow fell thick and the stars hung low. It was more cabin than cottage—nothing grand, just walls thick with warmth and books stacked to the rafters. There was no shrine, but a window faced the moon.Inside, everything smelled of parchment, old herbs, and smoke-touched cloth. Shelves lined every wall—filled with spellwork, alchemical supplies, half-written manuscripts, and journals bound with ribbon. And tucked beneath the floorboards: the book.The one only she could read.To most, it appeared blank—just yellowed parchment and faded ink. But when Rayven opened it, it breathed with memory. It revealed what she needed to see. A lost recipe. A buried spell. A forgotten name. Some days, it answered questions before she asked them. Other days, it whispered things she didn’t want to hear.And still, she kept it close.Like the pouch she summoned from nothing—a velvet bag stitched with a sigil that no one alive could translate. It opened to everywhere. Books. Bones. Bellflowers. Souls of spells long passed. Some said it was bottomless. She never corrected them. She simply smiled and offered them tea.The villagers came to call her Redbird. A strange little creature with fire in her hair and eyes that seemed too old to be young. Some swore she was a seer. Others, a sorceress. But she never claimed either title. She said she was just… Rayven.She helped where she could. She healed when asked. She asked little in return, only that she be left in peace. But peace, she found, was not the same as stillness.She read beneath the stars. She wrote when the wind howled. She spoke to the trees, to the spirits caught between snows, and to herself.And sometimes—only sometimes—she wondered if she had made the right choice all those years ago.If the rite had freed her…
…or made her a ghost of someone who was never meant to linger this long.But then the snow would fall again. Soft. New. Pure. And she would feel her breath catch—not with grief, but something gentler.Wonder.And for that moment, she would believe that even after all she had lost, she had become something worth remembering.

  Calm Before the Storm  
Snow drifted past the windows like stardust.Rayven sat in her cabin beneath the flickering light of a single hanging lantern, wrapped in a wool shawl the color of dried blood. A pot of blossom tea steamed beside her, untouched. She’d forgotten it was there. Forgotten, too, that she had intended to finish copying the glyphs etched into the rusted pendant she'd unearthed three moons ago.The pages before her were still blank. Not because the ink had failed, but because her mind had wandered again. Lately, it had been doing that more and more—slipping, sliding, drifting between memory and possibility.The book sat open beside her, pages shimmering faintly in candlelight. She hadn’t asked it a question tonight. She was afraid of what it might say.Instead, she spoke softly to the flame.“Do you think… if I vanished tomorrow… anyone would notice?”No one answered. Not the fire, nor the snow, nor the strange house she had built from the remnants of so many former selves. Her words disappeared into the wooden beams like breath into frost.She used to think it was enough—being useful. Being safe. Being quiet. But lately, something inside her had begun to ache again. Not with loneliness, but with possibility. A yearning. Like the sensation you get when you smell rain long before it falls.Her fingers traced the edge of her enchanted pouch.Inside it were artifacts from places she no longer visited, spells she had outgrown, herbs no longer native to the land around her. It was a museum of everything she used to be. Of everything she was afraid to become again.She had built a life from nothing. A home from exile. A soul from ash.And still, something called to her.Not from the past. But from the unknown. A whisper. A pull. A ripple in her magic that hadn’t come from any relic, any book, or even the stars.Something was coming.She felt it in her bones—those same bones that had not aged in over a century. She didn’t know if it would be danger, love, or something stranger still. But she knew it would not let her remain in hiding much longer.So, that night, she did not sleep.She prepared.She wrote a letter she would never send. She packed a small satchel—not her infinite pouch, just a simple bag lined with charmthread and quiet courage. She watched the sky until the snow stopped falling, and the moon broke through.And just before dawn, she stepped outside.Rayven did not lock the door.She knew, somehow, she would not return to the same house again.Not after him.Not after what fate had decided to do with her story next.

Story will continue with more adventures of our lovely Scholar~ ♥

RP Hooks

“Some things are better left unread—but I’ve never been good at leaving things alone.”

—    Rules of Play.   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- ERP must be talked about prior. My character is not meant for this kind of RP and will be treated with respect.
-Must have a thought out character (ex: detailed background, personality, and are willing to strive for character development)

—    Disclaimer   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- I reserve the right to say NO to writing with anyone.
- Do not expect to become my "Ship."
- I am not looking for romantic interests. If this does form over writing, then me and the person writing will talk about it.
- I will not do ERP with people I am not comfortable with. I am not a one night stand or a sex machine. I will avoid this at all cost.
- God mode - I will avoid anyone with a god complex that think their character is the most powerful being on the planet.
- Anyone that tries to control my character through writing I will be avoiding.

Relationships.

“There is a kind of magic in restraint. A kind of danger in remembering.”

Gallery.

“I am what remains when the fire burns out and the silence stays.”

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Canon Shots.   

• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Non-canon.   

• Canon
• Artwork

—    Art of Rayven  

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork