Sylvara

In the time before memory, when the stars still whispered to the earth and mountains had yet to rise, the world breathed its first breath—and with it, so did she. From the heart of the newborn world, where sunlight first kissed the soil, Sylvara was born not of flesh, but of root, wind, and will. She emerged fully formed beneath the first world-tree, her emerald scales gleaming with dew, her breath laced with the scent of spring’s first bloom. The land knew her, and she knew the land—not as master and servant, but as twin hearts beating in eternal rhythm. Legends speak of her gliding over wild continents before even the gods walked openly. Where her shadow touched, forests awakened. Rivers bent toward her voice. The creatures of the deep wood would gather in reverent silence as she sang life into every blade of grass, every budding tree. She was the Earth’s memory made manifest. But balance is a fragile thing. As time passed and sentient beings rose from the soil—bold, curious, and ever-hungry—they forgot the old pacts. They tore at the roots to build their empires, bled rivers dry for coin, and cast their waste into the skies. The Verdant Matron watched, sorrow growing like weeds in her soul. And then, when the screams of the wild grew louder than her own silence, she stirred. The earth cracked. The vines grew fangs. And Sylvara awoke from centuries of slumber. Not as wrathful tyrant—but as a mother whose children had lost their way.