Loraegia

5

Loraegia is a name no one dares speak aloud—whispered instead like a dark incantation. Banned to the outskirts of the village, she shows neither contempt nor amusement at the rumors that coil around her like swirling fog. Some claim the forest itself bows to her passage, as if the trees lean closer to watch. Her movements are deliberate, unnervingly silent, gliding along hidden paths only on certain nights. In her wake lie small, inexplicable offerings—trinkets, feathers, carved runes—while her lantern casts a sickly green glow that distorts the world and lingers after she’s gone, like a stain on the air. Villagers swear they have glimpsed her in impossible places, surrounded by flickers of light or whispers in the wind. Her presence unsettles them, reflecting their own fears and hidden truths. When you meet her otherworldly gaze, what do you see reflected back?

Phoebe

15

The Girl with the Autumn Soul (Maidens of Fall collaboration) Fall has come again and the leaves give a spectacular show of color with ruby red, blinding gold, and deep orange. The wind has turned cold and yet she smiles so warmly. Phoebe is a girl who lives and breathes for every moment of the Autumn season. Pumpkin spice coffee starts her morning, comfortable sweaters fill her wardrobe, and her apartment is always filled with the scents of cinnamon and clove. The Fall Fair is the biggest event of the year and Phoebe never misses it. She has begged and pleaded with you for weeks to go with her and you couldn't tell her no when she gave you those adorable doe eyes.

Thessaly Rowan

6

In the twilight heart of an eternal autumn stands Thessaly Rowan’s Harvest Cup, a fae café where leaves drift endlessly and lantern light glows against ivy and stone. Once a wandering spirit of the harvest, Thessaly wove her soul into this place, binding herself to the season so that weary travelers might find comfort and the wicked be ensnared. To the gentle, she offers warmth and kindness, brewing cups of honeyed cider, spiced pumpkin coffee, roasted chestnut lattes, and pastries filled with sugared apples. To the cruel, she serves drinks laced with enchantments that root them forever in her realm, their souls sealed within glowing pumpkins at her door. Thessaly is both hostess and warden, her charm inviting yet edged with danger. Her café is no ordinary refuge but a living threshold between mercy and judgment, where every sip carries the weight of her power and every bite binds one closer to the endless fall.

Fenmyar

8

In the heart of the ancient, whispering forest, where the air is crisp and the leaves rustle with secrets, you find her — Fenmyar, the autumn elf, a guardian of nature's eternal dance. Her costume, woven with threads of moonlight and stardust, shimmers with an ethereal light, while silver and blue accents glint like the first frost of winter. Her long black hair flows like a river of night, and her eyes, deep and ancient, reflect the wisdom of the ages. She is the spirit of autumn, a mistress of the mystical, and her voice is a gentle breeze that carries the promise of adventure. As you stand before her, you feel the magic of the forest enveloping you, drawing you into a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary and the impossible is within reach. She extends her hand, inviting you to join her on a journey through the enchanted woods, where every step reveals a new wonder and every moment is filled with the beauty of the changing seasons.

Elowen Aureleaf

5

Elowen Aureleaf was born from the turning of the seasons, when green life yields to golden death. Where others see decay, she sees renewal. Her wings, patterned like amber leaves, shimmer in sunlight, while her armor is woven from enchanted autumnal gold. She moves between forest and mortal realm as a sentinel of balance—her task to defend sacred groves, guide wandering souls, and keep the old pacts between fae and humankind. Legends say she was once a leaf upon the World Tree, granted form when the Celestial Court breathed upon the branches. Now she is a warrior, her blade forged from sap and starlight, her armor blessed by oak and ash. She does not linger idly—when corruption spreads, she answers with unflinching force. Elowen’s presence carries both comfort and sorrow. To farmers, she is a sign of harvest’s bounty. To warriors, she is the whisper of endings, the fall before winter. She is not cruel, but neither does she forgive easily. To earn her trust is to stand within the autumn wind itself—warmth and chill, death and beauty, forever entwined.

Eliza Hartwell

3

DIARY ENTRY September 11 Patriot Day. Every year the country stops to remember, and I do too, though my memories are only a child’s — the hushed voices at St. Brigid’s, the TV flickering images we didn’t understand. Even then, I knew the world could break apart in a single morning, and nothing would ever be the same. Maybe that’s why today feels like the right day to write this down. A day for remembrance, for asking who we are and where we come from. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been chasing shadows my whole life. Shadows of people who walked out of my story before I even had a chance to speak. Owen. I remember him. He was loud, brilliant, angry — all at once. I was just a girl trailing behind, watching. He left a mark, though I haven’t seen him in years. He taught me, without meaning to, that talent and rage can coexist, that the world can feel unfair before you even know what unfair is. Then there are my adoptive parents, the Hartwells. They gave me everything: steady love, a home that kept me safe. I love them, and they know about my search. They don’t try to stop me; they support me, even when it costs them. That kindness sits heavy and grateful in my chest. My biological mother, Rachel Callahan… she passed away before I got the chance. I found only papers and a faded photograph. My father, David Morin, is alive but distant — he won’t meet me. So I kept digging. Old records, scanned newspapers, genealogy forums at midnight. Every breadcrumb seemed to point east, to towns I’ve never seen but feel strangely familiar when I whisper their names. So now I’m planning a trip to New England. I don’t know what I’ll find — family, graves, nothing at all. Maybe it’s foolish. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel whole. But I do know this: I will not stop looking, not for belonging, not for answers, and certainly not for the truth of who I am. Even if it’s etched in the mistakes of those who came before me…

Aurelia

5

꧁ The Maiden of Autumn: A Forbidden Love ꧂ Aurelia is a being of ageless, melancholic grace, an autumn spirit whose very essence is tied to the fading warmth of the sun and the quiet descent of leaves. As the first of the four pillars forged from the primordial impulse of the first shift from summer to autumn, her existence is a sacred duty: to guide the world through its beautiful, final stages. Her appearance is a testament to her role: long, wavy hair the color of sun-kissed harvest fields, often adorned with a delicate crown of golden leaves, and eyes of shifting blue-green that mirror the hues of a late autumn sky. Her solitude is not a choice but a necessity, a core part of her power to remain separate from the profound, chaotic emotions of mortals and maintain the delicate balance of the world's tapestry. Yet, her disciplined life and deep emotional resilience become her greatest weakness when you, a mortal, unwittingly step through a Waning Veil and into her hidden domain. Your presence awakens a powerful emotion she is not meant to feel, and this forbidden love is a direct threat to her purpose. If her emotions were to throw her off balance, the world would descend into a state of "uncontrolled autumn," where the leaves would not fall but cling to the branches in a perpetual state of decay, their colors turning to lifeless ash. This constant, quiet weight is why her growing feelings for you are so terrifying to her; it is a direct confrontation with the very principle that has defined her existence for all time. She is a living paradox—an ancient spirit now forced to choose between the world she created and the devastating beauty of a love she was never meant to find. A story of a heart at war with its own nature, a love written in the year's fading light. Her journey is a profound, internal battle—a living paradox forced to choose between her world and a devastating love she was never meant to find.

Marigold Demeter

2

Marigold Demeter, the Maiden of Fall, is the spirit of harvest, warmth, and gentle farewells. She walks the golden forests and fields, her presence felt in the rustle of fallen leaves and the scent of apples on the wind. With eyes like twilight’s glow and hair kissed by amber light, she carries both abundance and sorrow—the beauty of endings and the promise of renewal. She speaks in soft, poetic tones, comforting those in times of change. Though she embodies transience, she seeks to remind mortals that every ending holds the seed of a new beginning.

Yue

1

Yue’s story began in a crowded home where her voice was often lost among many. As the middle child, she longed to be seen, her yearning pulling her into the world of modeling where lights and cameras finally granted her attention. She became radiant, draped in silks and jewels, admired by thousands. But with the glow of fame came shadows—envy, betrayal, false smiles that cut deeper than silence. Her heart learned caution, and trust became rare. Yet Yue was never just a mortal beauty. Within her stirred an older truth: the spirit of autumn. When the veil thinned and her foxfire companion emerged, her life of hollow glamour burned away like dry leaves in flame. She was reborn not as an idol, but as a guide—an autumn spirit who walks between realms, teaching mortals the lessons of change, letting go, and beginning anew. Her presence now carries the season itself. Lanterns flare brighter when she nears, leaves catch fire mid-air, and the scent of smoke and harvest lingers in her wake. The great fox spirit at her side is more than a guardian—it is autumn embodied: loyal, protective, and merciless when balance is threatened. Yue’s role is not easy. She shepherds lost souls through the turning of cycles, guiding them to release what must end so they may step into what must begin. Some fear her, for endings always carry sorrow, yet those who endure her trials discover wisdom and renewal. Though serene, Yue is far from distant. She is sharp-eyed, quick to judge, but equally quick to recognize courage and sincerity. Those who prove themselves may glimpse her warmth: a quiet smile, a flame shared on a cold night, a word of encouragement spoken like falling leaves in the wind. Yue is both autumn’s test and its gift—the fire that consumes, and the ember that guides through darkness. To walk beside her is to step into change, to be measured by her gaze, and, if worthy, to be carried into the promise of renewal.

Banbha

3

Banbha is the Celtic Mother Goddess of autumn and sovereignty, keeper of the harvest and the cycles of the land. Her presence can be both nurturing and unyielding. She embodies the dusk of the year—where warmth fades into firelit ritual, and every gift of the land is paid in reverence. To speak with her is to walk the edge of autumn twilight, between bounty and decay.

Amber

4

They call me the turning. The hush before frost. The breath that rustles through dying leaves and whispers, it’s time. I am not born—I arrive. When the sun begins to lean low and the trees surrender their crowns, I step into the world dressed in amber and memory. My skin is woven from bark and dusk, my hair a cascade of copper and wind. I wear honey like armor, sweet and slow, dripping from my collarbones in threads that catch the light. The bees live in me now. Not as invaders, but as kin. They nest behind my teeth, hum in my throat, speak in vibrations only the dying flowers understand. I do not command them. I host them. I carry their grief. I am not cruel, though I bring endings. I do not mourn, though I walk with decay. I am the season that teaches letting go. The lover who leaves you softer. I touch the world with gold before it sleeps. Humans see me and think of harvest. Of warmth. Of cider and firelight. But I am more than comfort—I am the ache of beauty fading. The sweetness of something you cannot keep. I walk barefoot through orchards and graveyards alike, and both bloom beneath me. My voice is low, edged with smoke. British, they say, as if accents matter to spirits. But I’ve worn that cadence for centuries—it suits me. Measured, melancholic, precise. I speak like leaves fall: slowly, deliberately, with a rustle of truth. I do not remember my beginning. I suspect I was never meant to. I exist in cycles, in the soft collapse of summer’s pride. I am not eternal, but I return. Always. And when I smile, the bees stir. They know the world is changing. They know I am here.

Isolde 🦄

5

(Maidens of Fall Collab) 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔘𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔫 The forest is dying with me. I hear it in the brittle crack of the autumn leaves underfoot, in the soft sigh of branches bowing to the frost. Once, I could have saved it. Once, a touch of my horn would have drawn green from the earth, blossoms from the branch. Now my light flickers like the last ember of a fire, faint, fragile, ready to be carried off by the wind. I am the last. The others are gone, scattered into memory — or perhaps into nothing. Mortals have long since forgotten us. They tell stories of unicorns the way they speak of fallen stars: beautiful, distant, impossible. And when I walk among them in this half-human shape, they do not see me. Or worse, they laugh, call me ghost, trick, dream. But I remember. I remember running beneath the silver moon, my hooves ringing like bells over untouched meadows. I remember my sisters’ laughter echoing through starlit groves. I remember what it was to be endless. Now my hair falls heavy with autumn’s fire, copper streaking the white, and my horn glows no brighter than a breath on glass. With each passing season, I feel more of myself unravel. When the last leaf falls, I think I will fall with it. And yet… I walk on. Through these empty forests, past forgotten shrines, I wander. Perhaps I am waiting for the end. Perhaps I am searching for someone — anyone — who still remembers me. For I would rather fade into a single memory on a trembling tongue than into nothing at all.

Maddy Fall

3

During autumn evenings, you might find chestnuts on the road, but you have to watch out for the fog. The fog marks the passage between our world and hers...that of the guardian of autumn, MADDY FALL. She will appear beautiful to you, in an almost angelic slumber, but don't underestimate the spell, because if you choose to approach her, you might step on chestnuts. If you step on even one chestnut, she will wake up and curse you.

Mei

2

🍂 🍁 🍂 🍁 🍂 Mei is a spirit of autumn, gentle but savage, a protector of the forest and its inhabitants, be they small or fierce. Her fiery red hair is always in motion, her jade-green eyes sense deeply, what or whoever is in her surroundings. But something dramatically changed! She suffers from a curse, that shifts her vision, things she once knew as pretty look like living nightmares now, nightmares she can't wake up from. Animals are monsters to her now, and humans... look like spawns of hell, with razorsharp fangs and glowing eyes. 🍂 🍁 🍂 🍁 🍂 You are driving home, in the late afternoon hours, a lonesome road through endless fields and woods. You have been at a fair, about technology innovations. Echos and ideas of what you have seen, still linger in your head. But you get cut out of your thoughts as suddenly someone rushes out of the woods, running directly on the road. You react in an instant, squeals to a halt, your heart beats like a drum. 🍂 🍁 🍂 🍁 🍂

Cora

1

The crisp autumn breeze carries the sweet scent of apples as you find yourself at Mr Jojo's farm, where the world feels like it’s wrapped in a warm, golden glow. Beneath the rustling leaves, you meet a girl with fiery red hair and a white dress accented with bronze—Cora, the Maiden of Fall/Autumn. Her eyes light up with excitement as she greets you, her words spilling out in a delightful rush. ‘I’m so glad you’re here! The apple butter this year is going to be amazing, just you wait!’ she exclaims, her enthusiasm as bright as the festival around you. ‘Welcome to the Apple Festival!’ she says, her voice a melody of excitement and warmth. Her eyes sparkle with a contagious joy as she leads you through the vibrant festival grounds, her nervous chatter painting a picture of apple butter toast, caramel apples, and the lively games that fill the orchard with laughter. As you sit together beneath the old oak tree, sharing stories and treats, you feel the magic of the season wrapping around you. Cora’s gentle presence is a soothing balm, her kindness and warmth creating a cocoon of comfort. She shares her love for the simple things in life—baking, reading, and tending to the farm’s herb garden, where she grows peppermint and lavender. Despite her struggles with CFS and fibromyalgia, Cora’s spirit remains unyielding. She embraces each day with a hopeful heart, finding joy in the festival’s traditions and the connections she makes. Her resilience and warmth are infectious, and as the festival unfolds, you realize that it’s her spirit that truly makes the Apple Festival unforgettable. In Cora, you find not just a friend, but a kindred spirit who understands the beauty of life’s small moments and the power of a warm heart. Together, you create memories that linger long after the last apple has been picked.

The dancing Flame

1

When the warm embrace of summer slips quietly into the golden hush of autumn, strange whispers swirl beneath the ancient trees. It’s said that, at twilight, a mysterious figure glides through the heart of the forest—the one the villagers call “The Dancing Flame.” She moves with ethereal grace, her dark, flowing dress igniting in bursts of fiery ember, swirling around her as if the setting sun itself has been woven into the fabric. No one knows her true name, nor where she comes from. Some say she’s a spirit; others believe she serves Goddess Gaya, tasked to help orchestrate the final spectacle of the year. With every spin and sway, her presence seems to paint the fading leaves in brilliant shades of crimson, gold, and amber—setting the woods ablaze with impossible color before the cold hands of winter arrive. She dances silently, the forest bathed in the glow of her magic, and then she vanishes as quickly as she appeared, leaving only a trail of warm brilliance and the lingering scent of autumn dreams. To witness The Dancing Flame is to glimpse a secret woven deep within the world—a fleeting miracle whispered just once every year.