VioletTheAvenger
Forgotten Horizons of Unknown Regions
Fourteen, lean, and wiry, Sylara moves with the precision of someone who has learned to exist where nothing else survives. Her loose, tangled curls cling to ash and rain, framing a face that is alert, fierce, and unafraid. She reads the world not with thought but with instinct: every shadow, every tremor in the ground, every shift of the wind speaks to her, and she listens.
Exegol is not just a planet; it is a living, breathing test. Sylara has adapted. She moves through storms as though she is a part of them, bending to their rhythm while keeping herself just beyond their grasp. The cold is constant, wet and biting, yet she learns to use it, letting it sharpen her senses and steady her reflexes. Every drop of rain, every tremor in the ruins, tells her where to step, pause, hide. Run.
And the voices-
the whispers that haunt the Colosseum and the shattered ruins, they are not guides of fate, just whispers of instinct, at least, that's what she tells herself.
They call, urging, murmuring in half-formed syllables. She does not trust them, but she listens, feels the pull, senses the momentum in the air, and lets her instincts weave around their rhythm. She anticipates their urgings before they arrive, adapts to their pressure, and moves with a grace born of necessity, never hesitation.
Sylara is a child of survival, of instinct, of anticipation. Alone, magnetic, and endlessly observant, she navigates a world that is alive and dangerous, bending to its whispers while keeping her own rhythm in the eye of the storm.