"The woods remember what the world forgets. Tread softly, for even silence has a voice here."Tolverus Brimthorne | Crystal - Brynhildr | EST

DESCRIPTION

Tolverus moves like a shadow threaded through twilight… lean and long-limbed, with the sinewy strength of a creature shaped by wilderness and silence. His skin, tan and weather-worn, is marked with scars that speak of survival more than battle. Jagged lines like lightning across his chest, arms, and back, half-hidden beneath wraps and dark, travel-worn leathers. Each scar is a story he refuses to tell, carved into him by time, by memory, by the forest itself.His hair is a cascade of deep crimson, rich like aged wine, streaked with bold chunks of sunlit blonde that catch the light with every movement. mismatched ears sprout from his crown always alert, always listening to a world most others have forgotten how to hear.His eyes- the color of slate- are ancient, sharp, and heavy with things unsaid. They hold the weariness of someone who has wandered too far, and the calm of someone who no longer fears being lost.Tolverus dresses in layered, practical garments tailored for movement through underbrush and shadow. Leather straps, dark sashes, and modest adornments of carved bone or twisted vine speak of his deep reverence for the natural world. He wears no sigil, no emblem… Only the wild clings to him like scent, like memory.There is a stillness to him, like that of old trees or storm-waiting skies. He rarely speaks unless spoken to, and when he does, his voice is a low murmur steeped in dusk and solitude. And though he walks among crowds and cities now, there is something unmistakably feral in his bearing, as though the forest never truly let him go.Some swear they’ve seen him whisper to plants. Others claim he walks with ghosts. But none deny the quiet power he carries. As if nature itself watches through his eyes.

BACKGROUND

Tolverus was born beneath the boughs of the ancient Golmoran forests, among the Evershade Viera... a secretive tribe bound by moonlight and silence, where every breath was steeped in tradition and every step dictated by ancestral law. Among his people, love was secondary to duty. Hearts were meant to yield, to serve the tribe’s survival... not their own longing.But even in that quiet, disciplined world, Tolverus’s heart beat to a rhythm all its own.Her name was Yvina. She was wind and fire, dusk and laughter... A spark in the underbrush of his life. They met in the stillness between hunts, in the hush of moss-laden paths, in moments stolen beneath the ancient trees. Their love was something sacred, secret... not loud, but deep. They spoke of futures never promised, of a life outside the rigid walls of their traditions. For a time, dreaming was enough.But dreams are fragile things.When Tolverus came of age and declared his intent to bond with Yvina, the matriarchs intervened. Her bloodline, they said, was too noble...too steeped in ancient power and prestige for someone of his standing. She bore the legacy of queens and priestesses, while he was a hunter’s son. However honorable his intentions, he was unworthy. To pursue her would be to overstep, to challenge the order of things… to invite disgrace.Tolverus pleaded. He vowed to rise, to earn a place worthy of her name. He offered to leave with her, to cast off rank and title and live by love alone. But Yvina, wise and resolute, refused. She would not let him destroy his future chasing a dream the world would never permit. With sorrow in her eyes and quiet strength in her voice, she told him to let her go.And just like that, she vanished from his life... leaving behind a silence that no forest could fill.Tolverus left not long after. Not in anger, but in mourning. He did not return to the wilds as a warrior, but as a wanderer seeking quiet, and perhaps, forgetfulness. He immersed himself in the language of herbs and roots, in the soft alchemy of nature. He learned to mend wounds with poultices and calm fevers with tinctures. He healed strangers in distant lands, but could not touch the hollow ache within his own chest.But even in the deepest wood and most distant vale, Yvina never left him.At first, he saw her in dreams. Then in the corners of his vision - a flicker behind the trees, a shimmer beside a stream. And then, one night, she stood beside him beneath the stars. A ghost. A memory made flesh. She never aged. She never changed. She never spoke unless he was alone.He thought himself broken. Mad. But in time, her presence became familiar. A constant. She would sit with him as he brewed his salves, walk with him through rain-drenched fields, smile gently when the weight of memory crushed his spirit.No one else could see her.She was a companion no one could touch. The echo of a love too strong to die, too stubborn to fade. Her voice came when silence stretched too long. Her ghost was not cruel, nor wrathful. She was kind, patient, impossibly sad.Tolverus learned to live with her.Years passed. His feet wandered far across the sands of Thanalan, the ice of Coerthas, the cliffs of Gyr Abania. Until, at last, his path led him to Ul’dah, the glittering heart of dust and gold. He arrived with no destination, only weariness and the scent of wild herbs clinging to his cloak.And it was there, amidst the clamor of the Sapphire Avenue markets, that he first met Yalda.She ran a small, unassuming booth tucked between jewelers and spice-sellers. Her wares were delicate things... vials of fragrant oils, rosewater phials, charms bound in silken thread. Love spells, she called them. Magic for longing hearts, for tangled souls, for wounds too deep to see. Many passed her by with a smirk or a scoff. Tolverus did not.There was something ancient in her... not in years, but in bearing. Her eyes held both storms and stillness. Her smile was warm, but her presence whispered of power wrapped in grace.He stopped to ask about a rare herb he hadn’t seen since leaving the forest. She looked up, met his eyes, and something inside him stirred, cracked, breathed.They spoke. Not of love, but of plants and grief. Of the kind of sorrow that lingers no matter how many winters pass. And when he told her of Yvina, not just of the girl, but the ghost who walked beside him still... Yalda didn’t flinch. She didn’t mock. She didn’t pity.She listened.She didn’t offer to banish the spirit. She didn’t press him to forget. Instead, she honored it and offered him something different. A space to be whole, even if broken. A way forward that did not require letting go, only growing around what could not be changed.Yalda’s magic was not about binding hearts. It was about freeing them.So Tolverus stayed.Not forever... the road still calls, and the forest still sings in his blood, but long enough. Long enough to help her gather herbs under desert moons. Long enough to feel something like healing take root. Long enough to realize that grief does not always leave… but love, in time, can return in gentler forms.Now, he wanders still. But when the memories grow heavy, when the ghost grows near, he finds his way back to Ul’dah, to the corner of the avenue where a witch weaves spells not to ensnare, but to soothe.

• Yalda's Carrd

DETAILS

GALLERY.