Origins
Primavelda and Florivane are Lesser Fae, living in the Braids, a pocket of Lessae communities at the edges of both Evergild Fae and human society. Their parents were among those who have left, or escaped, to reclaim a life outside Evergild bindings. As such, Primavelda and Florivane were raised entirely within Lessae settlements, growing into their craft far from the politics and structures of Evergild society, but still close enough that the echoes of that world linger.
They are not sisters by blood, but chosen kin: choice-bound, tied by craft and wild will. They are two hands of the same body. One to bind, one to loose; one to rot; one to bloom; one to cut, one to grow. Neither older nor younger. Not old yet, nor young any more; but vital, voices like wind through reeds, or roots through stone.
Names and Perceptions
Their names, like much within Lessae tradition, hold meaning that others—Evergild and human alike—often misinterpret as affectation, but which in truth reflects an enduring and deliberate lineage of practical magic, ecological power, and quiet defiance.
Among the Fae, such names draw scoffs — “Pretty names for scrub women.” The Fae mistake them for ornament, missing entirely the depth they no longer understand. Humans are curious but often dismissive — “Sounds like a charm… a bit lofty for woodsfolk, isn’t it?” — imagining poetry where there is, in fact, lineage, practice, and quiet power.
Primavelda — ‘first wielder’ or ‘she who makes the first cut’ — speaks of initiation, decisiveness, the authority to shape. Florivane — ‘flower of the wind,’ ‘she who reads the bloom and the fleeting’ — holds a different balance, more attuned to change, transience, and the subtle signals of the living world. Where one stands as the line-maker, the setter of form, the other listens for the right moment, the right pattern, the turn of the season or the shift in the air.
Magic and Craft
Primavelda’s magic is an act of unbinding. It is physical, shadowed, restless work, full of motion, muttering, pressure, and line. She moves like someone cutting through a hedge at dusk, half-turned, always stepping between. Her craft is to loosen what should never have been tied — the wrong kinds of promises, the creeping root of obligation, the tangled knots of fate spun too tight or in the wrong hands. Her work is a fight, but not a reckless one. A knot cut is a space opened, and something will always come to fill it.
Florivane watches the gap. She knows what the wind carries. Fertility, bloom, the unstoppable force of life, of growth, of change. Her magic is the handful of seeds tossed where the roof just blew off. A petal from the best flower in the patch. A feather from a rare bird that dropped outside her door. A whisper into the wake behind someone’s footsteps. Small things, slipped into the weave, that change everything. She doesn’t soothe. She guides, she nudges, she reads the edges and marks the place where things will soon begin or soon decay. Hers is the wild’s insistence: if there is space, something will grow.
They don’t argue with each other. They argue with the knot, with the mess, with the creeping, tangled wrongness. Any hard words are the voice of the wild, the anger and the grief of the ways that should not need doing but must be done.
If they come to your door together, something is about to change. One way or another.
