Primavelda walks like a question no one dares to ask. Tall and lean, with wind-frayed plaits woven close around her head, her presence carries the scent of storm-wet bark and midnight stone.
She was grown in the free and giving soil of the Braids — tended not in obligation, but in community, shadow, and choice. She knows the stories of her ancestors, those who served the Evergild and slipped away, and she does not sit on those roots. She’s too wary of them. Her path is forward, always.
She speaks in coils, words unspooling smooth and low — old things, remembered half-wrong or exactly right. “Strix, Wix, Ullet and Ule,” she might murmur, tracing unseen lines on the back of her hand, “four turns of the wheel and four turns more — you must not.” The meaning is not the point. She speaks to what listens.
Primavelda’s craft is the slow undoing of harm woven deep — not dramatic, not seen, but felt when the grip loosens. Her magic binds and unbinds, moving through shadow and branch, rock and vine. She watches the way things hold too tight or refuse to mend, and works there, muttering through.
In her community she is known and respected — not as elder, not as authority, but as someone you go to when the silence gets too loud. She trades in odd jobs and odder work, and has been known to uproot for a season when the wind insists. She works often with Florivane — old accomplices, both — though their reasons are their own.