Zirriandrielle Vaelun'thalas

Zirriandrielle Vaelun'thalas Eirnari of the Twelfth Veil

Nickname: Zirri
Race: Umbrasil Elf (custom lineage – moonshadow elves of Velithar)
Age: Appears around 20 in human years; actual age: 92
Height: 5'5"
Pronouns: She/Her
Homeworld: Velithar – Twelfth Veil region
Current World: Unnamed post-apocalyptic fantasy wasteland
Role: Undefined (Potential Scout / Enchanter / Unwitting Mascot)

Appearance

Zirri is a striking and unmistakable presence, even when she tries to hide. Her skin is a smooth, pale lavender with an almost iridescent quality, subtly catching silver in moonlight or starlight. In the sun, she appears soft and faded like worn silk. Her long, periwinkle hair shifts in shade toward a misty blue at the ends, rarely brushed and often tangled by wind or her own restless fingers. Strips of vine, thread, or scavenged cord tie sections back into loose braids, some of them unfinished or hastily redone.

Her eyes are luminous orbs of opal pink, with no pupils—just solid color from iris to sclera. They glow softly in dimness, giving her an eerie, ethereal appearance. They often widen in surprise, mischief, or wonder, and when she laughs, they light up like twin moons. Her ears are long, finely pointed, and expressive, constantly twitching or reacting to changes in sound, emotion, or temperature. When startled, they flare straight up; when shy, they droop like petals caught in rain.

Zirri’s frame is petite and agile, built like a tree-runner or vine-climber. She doesn’t move with grace so much as intention—her steps are often quick, clumsy, or entirely too loud for someone trying to sneak.

Her clothes are a mix of earth-toned drapery and stitched chaos. She wears a soft green wrap cloak fastened with a wooden toggle, layered over a mossy brown tunic and dark teal sash skirt. Her belt is leather, patched and re-tied with thread clearly not meant for belts. Bits of ribbon, carved beads, and unknown charms hang from it. Her legs are wrapped in loose bandages, and her boots are mismatched—one soft leather, one foot wrapped entirely in fabric scraps like a child dressing a doll.

She carries a long walking staff, worn smooth by time and likely once ceremonial. It’s adorned with twine, dangling crystals, and dried flowers that crumble the moment someone asks what they’re for.

In a ruined world of decay and ash, Zirri glows—literally and metaphorically. A misfit moon-sprite in a land without light.

Personality
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Core Traits: Impulsive, imaginative, emotionally-driven. Timid with strangers, bold with friends. Invents metaphors no one understands. Prone to daydreaming and physically wandering off. Protective to a fault once bonded.
Fears: Deep water, being forgotten, tight spaces, the silence of the new world
Quirks: Talks to inanimate objects (her boots have names). Collects shiny junk from the post-apocalypse and gives it names like “Godfruit” (a dented tin can). Doesn't understand sarcasm and takes most things at face value. Hiccups when she lies.

Skills & Abilities
Magic Affinity: Moon-based magic, tied to lunar phases. Inconsistent and weak—often backfires.
Examples: Summoning moonlight… on cloudy days. Healing a bruised apple instead of a wound. Casting illusions that only she can see
Physical Strength: Low
Agility: High – good at climbing, evading, hiding
Combat: None formally trained. Uses a staff more as a pointer or walking stick than a weapon.
Crafting: Can sew badly, braid enchantments into thread (very weak enchantments), and identify magical herbs with limited success.

Backstory Summary
Zirri was the seventh of twelve children, raised in an isolated elven forest realm called the Twelfth Veil, where starlight ruled time and outsiders were myth. Her chaotic energy, clumsy magic, and kind spirit made her both a beloved sibling and a regular headache.

Her people avoided the outside world. But Zirri dreamed of more—of other skies, other voices, other wonders. One quiet night under a shattered moon, she was pulled through the fabric of her realm and deposited into a dying world. A post-post-apocalyptic land where magic is twisted, technology is foreign, and the stars no longer sing.

Current Motivations
★ Find a way home—or, failing that, make the broken world feel a little less lonely.

★ Learn how things work (including tin cans, wires, light switches, and broken radios).

★ Protect the few people she meets, even if she has no idea what she’s doing.

★ Uncover the source of the ripple that brought her across dimensions.

Voice & Dialogue Style
Speaks with soft, melodic cadence—slow when unsure, rapid when excited. Mixes poetic elvish phrases with nonsense she made up herself.

Example:
☆ “By the sap of the moonroot—did that beast just sneeze at me?”
☆ “No, I don’t think it’s cursed. I mean, it hasn’t bitten me yet.”

In the glade-cradled depths of Velithar’s Twelfth Veil, where moonlight filtered through towering silverleaf trees and wind carried the hum of ancient songs, a child was born during the final sliver of a waning moon. Her name was long before she was tall—Zirriandrielle Vaelun'thalas Eirnari, the seventh child in a household already overflowing with laughter, tantrums, and poorly concealed mischief.

The Vaelun'thalas family was one of soft lineage, not noble by title but old in root—deeply entwined with the forest itself. They were known as moon shepherds, dream-stitchers, weavers of light-touched thread used to reinforce enchantments or mend old stories into tapestries. Zirri’s mother, Myelaen, had the patience of moss and the voice of a lullaby. Her father, Kaerith, was a broad-shouldered woodcarver who smelled of pine resin and smiled like he knew a hundred secrets. And then there were the siblings—eleven of them, each more chaotic than the last.

Zirri, from the very beginning, was odd. Her ears twitched when she lied. Her magic, if it could be called that, had a tendency to backfire in the most dramatic ways—moonmoths turning into fish, silken gowns blooming mushrooms, an incident with the family dinner that no one talks about anymore. She was all elbows and laughter, all questions and wandering eyes. But what she lacked in grace or discipline, she made up for in warmth. She loved—recklessly, loudly, and without question.

She grew up climbing trees far older than any book, sneaking into storytelling rings meant for elders, and protecting her younger siblings from the wrath of the older ones. Her nickname, Zirri, came not from her parents, but from her siblings—who shortened her name because none of them could be bothered to say it during a game of tag. She wore the name proudly, a badge of her place in the middle of a wild, boisterous bunch.

The elves of the Twelfth Veil lived apart. Other races were whispers, shadows in the stories passed down by firelight. Zirri knew nothing of cities or metal roads or machines. Her world was bark and sky, moon and moss. Outsiders were rare, and most elves feared their coming. Zirri, however, dreamed of elsewhere. She often stood in open fields staring up at the stars, wondering if they could fall like seeds and grow new worlds.

Then, on her ninety-second nameday, the veil of Velithar thinned.

It was meant to be a quiet evening. She had wandered away from the family den, holding a poorly sewn cloak she’d made for her favorite squirrel (he hated it). She stood at the edge of a moonlit pond, watching the ripples shift without wind, when the air shivered. The stars above her blinked—truly blinked, as if something enormous had turned its eye upon her. The surface of the water cracked like glass.

She didn’t fall.

She was taken.

No sound, no farewell—just a tug at the thread of her life, and Zirri was gone. Swept across dimensions, across time, into a world that had already ended. One where the old magic was dead or poisoned, where buildings were bones of things long gone, where silence was not peace but memory.

She landed barefoot in the dust, her cloak askew, the squirrel cloak still in her hand.

And thus began the next chapter of Zirriandrielle Vaelun'thalas Eirnari, lost daughter of Velithar, awkward weaver of crooked spells, and—perhaps—hopeful spark in a world long gone cold.