Mel Felorinil

A Sprout Among Moss

Mel was just a sprout when the meirling boy Sylvan found her—unbloomed, roots waving in the air, head buried in the loam outside Estanraathama. Curious, two‑year‑old Sylvan tugged the tiny Petalcarver free, leaving a faint bruise at the crown of her upside‑down head. He carried the budding child home.
The Petalcarvers might have gasped at the very thought that moss would one day lace her petals—such growth is whispered of as self‑harm among their circles—but not the meirlings. In their grove nestled against Glat’s sheer mountainside, life clung to life. They named her Mel—Sylvathis for "plant", a word the toddler Sylvan blurted when asked what the little bud should be called—and loved her as their own.

Roots and Guardians

Her adoptive mother, Shanira, kept a greenhouse of whispering ferns, lichens, and jewel‑bright fungi. Her teas could mend bone or break fever, and she taught Mel the gentle grammar of growing things.
Her father, Thalor, Mycoguide of the Circle of Mycoguards, served both life and the sacred rot. With him Mel learned reverence for endings, and the promise written in each decay‑sweet breath.
As Mel matured, small patches of moss began to creep across her plant skin, encouraged—never scolded—by her mireling family. What was once taboo among Petalcarvers became her quiet badge of belonging.

Funguy, the Over-Sentient Mushroom

That childhood bruise never quite vanished. As she grew, a mushroom cap slowly pushed through the scarred petals. Using her plant‑life‑infusing gift, Mel coaxed it to health. It stayed. It listened. It continued to grow like no other.
Over moons the little thallus awakened, budding a shy awareness. It resembles a small, vibrant mushroom whose cap shifts color with mood—deep purples when content, soft blues while resting, and an eerie red pulse when agitated. Its fibrous stem sprouts root‑like tendrils that anchor to Mel’s head or, when detached, allow it to shuffle along on its own.
Funguy speaks in slow, mumbled Sylvathis, rarely forming long sentences, and regards himself not as a separate being but as an extension of Mel’s body and soul. When latched to her crown his mycelial filaments weave through her vascular sap, sharing vitality: as long as Mel has strength, Funguy regenerates; when she tires, he withers.

A Secret Kept in Green

At ten, Mel discovered Sylvan in their mother’s greenhouse, pots smashed around his ankles—aftermath of an over‑eager sword form. Tears welled in his eyes. She saw from afar and whispered to herself, “It’s okay, I can help.”
While the family dined, she slipped back and poured quiet magic into each wounded stem. By dawn, the damage had faded to a droop their mother took for ordinary thirst. From that day forward, Sylvan left curious mushrooms and polished stones outside her door—silent thanks for her kindness.

Petalcarver Counsel

Fearing he might overlook Mel’s native needs, Thalor sought guidance from a Petalcarver elder in nearby Feltivahlivar—Bloomcrafter Lorin Everpetal. Lorin met Mel only thrice, yet in those visits taught her the first strokes of floral puppetry and the art of carving living petals—a discipline her Mireling parents could not give.

Spirits in the Rot

During her thirteenth bloom, Mel joined her father for the first time in a solemn Rite of Rot—a sacred ceremony where a Mireling elder’s body was returned to the fungal grove to begin its final cycle. As her father chanted and placed spore salves over the corpse, Mel laid her hands gently on the elder’s chest, whispering words she didn't fully understand.
The air thickened with unseen presence, and Mel’s vision shifted—there, rising like steam from soil, was the spirit of the elder, translucent and glowing with soft bioluminescence. The spirit turned to her, confused and lost, and Mel—guided by instinct—reached out with her voice and heart. “This way,” she whispered. “Back to the grove.” The spirit blinked once, then dissolved into threads of silver light that sank into the mycelium. Her father, eyes wide though he saw nothing, felt the shift. “You… you guided it,” he said softly. “The spirits listened.”
It was this moment that Mel knew her path would not follow the traditions of either the Petalcarvers or the Mirelings—it was something older, quieter, threaded between breath and silence. Where others chanted to honor the dead, she could hear them. Where others returned bodies to the rot, she could guide the soul that lingered.

The Dying Tree

Deep in the heart of the forest stood an ancient tree that captured young Mel's imagination from the moment she first laid eyes on it. As soon as she was old enough to venture into the woods alone, she claimed this majestic giant as her own sanctuary. Using her growing magical abilities, she carefully coaxed and shaped its branches, creating a treehouse that seemed to grow naturally from the living wood.
The tree became her second home—a place to study, practice her skills, and find solace in nature's embrace. She formed such a deep connection with it that she even grafted a small branch onto herself, a physical symbol of their bond. But fate had other plans.
One autumn day, when Mel was fourteen, she noticed the first signs of rot creeping through her beloved tree's bark. Desperate to save it, she pored over every book she could find, trying everything. Together with her mother, they surrounded the tree with a rainbow of protective plants, hoping their natural defenses might halt the decay's advance. But despite their best efforts, the rot continued to spread.
With a heavy heart, Mel made the hardest decision of her young life. To protect the rest of the forest, the tree would have to be cut down. One somber evening, she and her parents performed the necessary but heartbreaking task. Today, all that remains is a moss‑ and fungus‑covered stump surrounded by a ring of deadened earth, beyond which blooms a vibrant circle of the colorful plants she and her mother planted—a bittersweet memorial to her first true connection with nature. The branch she had grafted to herself now grows in her mother's greenhouse, a living reminder of both loss and hope.

Perfume and Parting

On the eve of her fifteenth bloom, Shanira presented Mel with a tiny red‑capped vial—Amanita Muscaria Perfume for the journeys ahead.
Sylvan, now seventeen, began his wandering rite. Brother and sister travelled together until the road forked in Tunin—the continent they had only heard about. There they embraced—one sprout and one son of the woods, both leaving home in their own ways.

Now Grown, Not Settled

At fifteen, Mel is Petalcarver‑mature yet forever liminal. Her spellbook is a slab of living mycelium that opens only to her voice. Moss patterns her shoulders; Funguy hums at her crown. Spirits still turn to her, and plants still bloom at her touch.
She is the whisper between life and death, the child of petals and spores. She is Mel Felorinil—and she is not done blooming.

Relationships

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Species

Petalcarvers

Ethnicity

Senau - Wild

Age

15

Parents (Adopting)

Thalor Felorinil

Spouses

Siblings

Sex

Female

Belief/Deity

Old Shwazen Ancestors

Aligned Organization

Old Shwazen Ancestors