Daughter of Lady Celarienne Avenloré
There is a stillness to Ilién Avenloré that unsettles some and soothes others — as though she belongs more to a half-remembered dream than the waking world. She speaks rarely, but when she does, her words carry weight, glimmering with quiet insight. Her voice is soft, her gaze steady, her presence gently magnetic. Unlike her mother’s electric intensity, Ilién’s magic flows like a hidden stream — deep, ancient, and touched by something other.
She wears her mother’s deep violet hair tied neatly out of her face, revealing features touched by an unknown lineage: skin like polished pearl with a subtle golden sheen, and eyes that seem to hold whole thoughts unspoken. Some speculate her father was fae, others whisper celestial — but Ilién has never asked, and Celarienne has never offered. It doesn’t trouble her.
She is most often found beside the enchanted fountains in the quieter corners of the Grand Library, reading not just for knowledge, but for resonance — sensing which words sing when turned inward, which truths belong to memory rather than fact. Her fascination lies in the overlap between what was and what is felt to be.
To Gwynviène, Ilién is more than a cousin — she is a tether to magic as it should be: thoughtful, wondrous, and laced with story.
As children, Gwyn and Ilién would sneak away from their respective wings of the estate, hands brushing old stone, feet bare on sun-warmed flagstones. They mapped secret corridors and borrowed forbidden scrolls. Together with Aurenne “Ren” and Panvier — who padded softly alongside them — they formed a quiet band of explorers, chasing half-true tales and building their own. While Ren clambered up bookshelves and Pan snuffled at ancient doorways, Ilién and Gwyn would lie on the floor of the Ethnarium, inventing languages and theorising where memories went when you forgot them.
Even as they’ve grown older, that bond remains. Gwyn trusts Ilién in a way she trusts few — for Ilién asks for nothing, demands nothing, and sees everything.