Patriarch of the Lexiconum, School of Language
Brother of Lady Velarienne Avenloré
Unknown father of Thane Thessairen
Unknown Grandfather of Talin Thessairen, Eran Thessairen, Tressa Thessairen, Lenna Thessairen
Unknown Great grandfather of Thess Thessairen
Uncle of Lady Syraëlle Avenloré, Lord Theridian Avenloré, Lady Celarienne Avenloré
Uncle of Lady Lineia Avenloré
Great Uncle of Gwynviène Avenloré, Sylvérian Avenloré, Aurenne “Ren” Avenloré, Aestrelle Avenloré, Mirelyn Avenloré, Ilién Avenloré
“There are truths too delicate to ink.”
Lord Elovain Avenloré is more myth than man — a grumbling, ink-stained relic of the Lexiconum, half-mad and half-miraculous. Once a celebrated linguist and visionary scholar, he is now the subject of whispers, caution, and reverence. Among the younger Avenlorés, he is called “the Living Manuscript” — part warning, part wonder.
His lifelong obsession with the Lost Script has long since crossed the bounds of conventional scholarship. His mutterings slip between forgotten tongues, his hands tremble with unfinished translations, and his chambers overflow with crumbling scrolls, fractured tablets, and glyphs no one else can read.
But it is his skin that speaks the loudest.
Winding over his arms, chest, neck, and scalp are thousands of symbols — not decorative, not random. Etched by his own hand in trance-like solitude, the glyphs are fragments of ancient language, some known to no living soul. Some shift in the candlelight. Some seem to disappear and reappear over time, as if rewritten while he sleeps. A few, it’s said, have bled.
No one knows the full extent of what they say — or whether Elovain himself remembers writing them. Some believe they are protective wards. Others fear they are spells half-cast. A rare few whisper that the language has begun to write back.
There are tales of him waking in the dead of night, gasping as new symbols burn across his skin. Of books opening themselves when he passes. Of doors sealed for centuries creaking open at his touch.
And yet, beneath this arcane madness lies a quieter wound.
In his youth, Elovain loved a lesser fae woman, Thessaly Thessairen— quietly, fiercely. But when word reached his family, the affair was swiftly and cruelly ended (The Unwritten Line). He never knew she carried his child. Years passed. The woman vanished into the world. The boy — now grown, married to a human, and a father himself — lives far from the great halls of Avenloré, unaware of his bloodline.
Whether Elovain knows the truth, or merely suspects, he has never said. But sometimes, amid the ink and murmurs, he hesitates — one hand pressed to a certain pattern along his ribs — as if recalling a name he once loved and can no longer bear to say.
Elovain no longer chases discovery.
He embodies it.
And whether the knowledge he carries will destroy or illuminate him…
…remains unread.
