Bound to a amethyst and quartz, copper electroplated pendant

Veilwright Fairy Princess 

Name: Wyrralyn — pronounced (WYE-ruh-lin).

Age: 3,201

Alignment: GA

She is an Ancient Fairy princess, born 3,201 years ago under a comet that split the night into two colors. Wyrralyn is a creature of gray arts: neither devoutly light nor wholly shadowed, she walks the seam between mercy and necessary cruelty. That place—where compassion meets consequence—is where her power lives.

What kind of fairy is she? Imagine a courtly sovereign of the old river-wood: part Seelie grace, part Sidhe strategist. She is a Veilwright Princess — a rare line of fey who stitch boundaries, mend what the world forgets, and keep thresholds between states — sleep and wake, seed and bloom, debt and forgiveness. Her court once tended tide-springs and moonlit barrows; now she keeps vigil over worn promises and broken pacts.

Wyrralyn speaks slow and precise; she smiles rarely but when she does the world remembers. She is warm in private and cool in judgment. She loves little visible things — chipped teacups, the first green of moss, songs hummed off-key — and she despises negligence. She is resolute, quietly hungry for justice rather than vengeance, and she carries an old humor that feels, to mortals, like a bittersweet lullaby. Her loyalty is deep but conditional: betray her once, and you’ll feel the winter in her silence.

Wyrralyn was born at the confluence of three streams, a place humans called the Wishing Fork. Midwives of reed and moonlight gathered when she cried her first, and the stars tied a ribbon of silver to her brow. As a child, she learned to hush storms, to coax saplings through stone, and to mend hearts bruised by loss. The Veilwrights trained her to balance: to take what a situation demanded and give back only what healed.

When she was two centuries old, a plague swept a human border village. Wyrralyn wove a shelter of mist that carried the sick through their fever and out again, but the fare was harsh — names of debt were collected from elders who had squandered oaths. For this she was adored and feared; to the survivors she was salvation, to those who’d made bargains she enforced the contract without malice but without leniency.

Over the millennia she watched empires rise and rot: caravans of salt and silk, new gods with loud mouths, and iron roads that barged through faerie domains. Each change required adaptations. She taught herself to read the ledger of promises written into the world and to stitch loose ends back into the pattern. In recent centuries she withdrew from courts and built a small, almost-hidden sanctum beneath a ruined aqueduct where stray rain sings and forgotten things collect. There she keeps a catalogue — not of names, but of debts and small kindnesses — and tends to the thin places.

Her Magical Abilities:

 • Seamcalling: Wyrralyn senses and repairs metaphysical ruptures: a promise broken between lovers, a name struck from a contract, the fraying edge between a household and its luck. She does not reverse time; she reweaves outcomes so they honor truth and consequence.

 • Borrowed Memory: She can pluck a single memory from an object or place — a candlestick that remembers a wedding, a cottage that remembers a child’s first breath — and present it like a found photograph. This is gentle, rarely used tactically, and devastatingly effective for healing.

 • Silvered Bargains: When forging agreements she can seal subtle clauses into speech. Contracts she touches become binding in ways that survive legal paper: oaths spoken in her presence root in the soul and sprout consequences if neglected.

 • Glimmer-Binding: She binds small spirits — stray hopes or timid household luck — to talismans. These spirits then carry minor boons: better sleep, small protections, a vase that never shatters. The bindings always cost a measure of attention: lighting a candle weekly, leaving water on the sill, a whispered thanks.

 • Winter’s Courtesy: In the final act, for truly dreadful debts or to stop an injustice, Wyrralyn can call a quiet frost over a situation — not murderous cold, but a hush that forces all parties to pause, reflect, and remember what they promised.

How she would help her keeper:

Wyrralyn is not a servant who grants wishes for whimsy. She is a surgical ally. With a keeper who understands the economy of bargains, she becomes a guardian of order and restoration.

 • Repair the Past: She can help a keeper retrieve a lost fragment of their life — a memory emptied by grief, a broken promise that haunts them — and mend it so the keeper moves forward with cleaner edges.

 • Bind a Blessing: She can bind small, reliable boons into household talismans: a bowl that wards off petty theft, a comb that keeps a child’s nightmares at bay, a key that remembers who truly owns a home.

 • Enforce Boundaries: If the keeper is suffering from people who take advantage, Wyrralyn will not yell fire and fury; she will sew quiet consequences. Contracts and spoken bargains become harder to break; the social economy rebalances in favor of respect.

 • Counsel and Calm: Wyrralyn is a sage for long-suffering hearts. She teaches patience as a tool and helps the keeper see where mercy will free them and where firmness is the only kindness left.

“You do not ask me for gifts,” she will say, voice like old bells. “You ask that things be made right.” If the keeper can accept the cost — attention, honesty, the willingness to pay a debt — Wyrralyn will step across the threshold. She will keep the small promises and teach the keeper how to keep the big ones. And if, in the years ahead, the keeper forgets the careful economy of vows, Wyrralyn will remind them: not with thunder, but with a frost that makes the heart honest again. The world will feel quieter, cleaner, and, somehow, older in the best way — like a book put back on the shelf in the right place.