Description

Mask

To the mundane world, Cyra Everleigh looks like the kind of woman who’s always just stepped out of a breeze-kissed forest clearing—radiant, unassuming, and effortlessly striking.

Her features are delicate and clean-cut, framed by tousled, light ash-blonde hair that falls in soft, loose waves like wind-tangled vines. There’s a natural, outdoorsy quality to her beauty—less runway polish and more wildflower charm. Her complexion is porcelain-fair with just a hint of sun-blush at the cheeks and the bridge of her nose, as if kissed by soft spring light.

Cyra's most mesmerizing feature is her eyes. Clear, crystalline blue with a startling depth, they catch light like water and always seem to be watching the horizon. People often feel like she sees more than she lets on—like she’s reading weather patterns or watching birds that aren't really there.

There’s a quiet alertness to the way she carries herself. Her posture is loose and easy, but there’s an archer’s precision in her stance—she looks like she knows how to move through a crowd without brushing a sleeve. She favors simple, functional clothes in natural tones: greens, creams, and soft leathers. A worn leather jacket or a forest-green hooded cloak wouldn’t feel out of place on her, nor would a satchel filled with herbs or arrows.

To strangers, she gives off an air of gentle mystery—like someone you might pass on a hiking trail and wonder about for the rest of the day. Friends know her as someone with quick hands, a sharp wit, and a laugh like wind chimes caught in a sudden breeze.

There’s always a faint scent around her too—fresh air after rain, crushed mint leaves, a hint of wild jasmine or lavender. And sometimes, in the corner of your eye, you might swear her hair moves just slightly on its own… or that her breath fogs the glass even when it’s warm.

Mein

Cyra Everleigh moves like lightning bottled in a mortal form—quick, elusive, and almost impossibly graceful. Her skin shimmers in shifting hues of sky blue and soft silver, as if the color of a cloud-kissed dawn was painted directly upon her. Fine, ethereal freckles dust her cheeks like flecks of stardust, glimmering faintly when she turns her face to the light.

Her hair is a wild cascade of white-silver strands that dance with a life of their own, constantly stirred by an invisible breeze that never touches anyone else. It billows and curls in fluid spirals, reminiscent of clouds caught in an updraft or the trailing ends of storm-tossed winds.

Cyra's eyes gleam with the clarity of the open sky, storm-bright and brimming with energy. Her pupils flicker subtly, as though reflecting distant lightning strikes or gusting wind patterns. When she moves, there’s a faint hum in the air, like the tension just before thunder—a whisper of the raw elemental forces that churn within her.

Her leathers are a rich, earthen brown tooled with curling vine motifs and wind-swirl patterns, suggesting both the untamed forest she stalks and the airy freedom of the open sky. Her tunic and leggings are cut for speed and movement, cinched with practical belts and fastenings, all made with exquisite detail—Spring Court finery hidden beneath the guise of a ranger’s garb.

Around her hands and wrists, bands of wind-touched leather reinforce her archer’s grip and healer’s touch. She wears a quiver fashioned from supple bark and trailing ivy, the fletchings of her arrows gleaming like feathered frost or shattered crystal, catching light as they move. Her bow hums faintly, tuned to the same subtle current that suffuses her body.

When Cyra speaks, her voice carries a melodious cadence that shifts with her mood—the rustle of wind through leaves, the crackle of kindling fire, the first patter of spring rain. She smells faintly of fresh air after a storm and the wild perfume of early blooming jasmine.

And in the moments when her elemental nature flares—when danger draws near, or emotion runs high—Cyra seems to blur at the edges, her form trailing luminous streaks like wind-blown petals or starlight caught on a breeze.

Personality

Cyra’s Flickerflash Kith and Durance as a skyborne messenger means she doesn’t do stillness. She feels restless when rooted in one place too long—emotionally or physically. This doesn’t mean she’s flighty, just that she finds safety and clarity in movement. Long drives, hikes, climbing fire escapes in the middle of the night—motion soothes her. She's not an academic or a deep theorist. She doesn’t read between the lines intellectually—she feels her way forward. Her decisions are snap judgments, built off gut instinct and muscle memory. She’s good in a crisis, fast on her feet, and rarely second-guesses herself. She knows what she knows, and if she doesn't, she'll make a plan on the fly.

She isn't naturally tuned into others’ emotional states, and she may miss subtle cues or react with a bit of emotional clumsiness. She doesn’t always get people, but she tries—when she remembers. That said, she’s not cruel or cold. She just expresses care through action, not words. If she sits with you in silence or brings you water without being asked, that’s her version of affection.

Despite that Cyra wants connection, and she craves renewal—for herself and others. Spring called to her because it’s about rebirth and hunger for life. Her heart aches for new starts, but she struggles with the vulnerability required to truly open up. Instead, she offers freedom and companionship on the road: “Come with me. I don’t know where I’m going either, but we’ll figure it out.”

Cyra is competent, fiercely independent, and sometimes blunt. She doesn’t like relying on others, partly because she doesn’t want to slow them down, and partly because she’s not sure she can. She’s quick to frustration with bureaucracy or inefficiency. But when danger comes? She doesn’t hesitate. She acts. Protecting people is what she knows. Healing, hunting, guarding—that’s her language.

⚡ Quirks and Edges:

• She hates standing in line. Paces. Always.
  
• Doesn’t like making eye contact for long—it feels too intimate.
  
• Sleeps better in a hammock or under the stars than in a bed.
  
• Has a weird affinity for weather vanes, birds, or anything sky-touched.
  
• Doesn’t really do small talk—she skips right to “Are you running from something too?”

Role-Playing Hooks

• Don’t You Ever Stop Running? (Drifters, Exiles, Nomads): Cyra doesn’t settle, doesn’t unpack, doesn’t even take off her boots half the time. She’s always planning her next route—out of town, out of the Freehold, across rooftops if she has to. Anyone who gets close enough might wonder, what is she really running from? What would it take to make her stay? Or... should they start running too?
• Carried Messages Across the Storm Courts of the Sky (Lost from Odd Realms): As a messenger in her Keeper’s Sky Kingdom, Cyra learned secrets, watched kingdoms rise and fall, and bore witness to things no one should’ve seen. Now those secrets—half-remembered, dream-fractured—are surfacing again. Did she carry messages for someone else’s Keeper? Deliver something that doomed a friend? Someone might recognize her from their own Durance.
• She Knows the Signs of Exposure (Healers, Rangers): Cyra was a nurse in the human world and a survivalist in the Hedge. She recognizes the signs of burnout, trauma, and silent suffering—even if she’s terrible at comforting people. Her help might come as a canteen shoved into your hands or a rough order to breathe slower. She won’t coddle—but she’ll get you through it.
• Spring Blossoms Even in the Wound (Any): Though she keeps people at arm’s length, Cyra is drawn to wounded beauty, to the spark of new beginnings. Her Spring Court leanings come out in the way she watches from afar: who’s falling in love? Who’s healing? Who’s daring to be happy again? She’s a quiet cheerleader, a silent guardian of hope she won’t admit she still has.