SFW
Rhylwyb Wakewyn
. . . .•
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Race
Roegadyn
Clan
Hellsguard
Free Company
None
Introduction
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Player's notes
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Character Information
Basic details about Rhylwyb Wakewyn
Age
23
Race
Roegadyn; Hellsguard
Partner
Single
Pronouns
She/Her
Occupation
Wandering Warrior
Body Type
Muscular
Birthplace
Abalathia
Residence
N/A
Background
The story of the character's origins
Backstory
Rhylwyb was born into the Stonepyre Clan, a Hellsguard settlement carved into the harsh ridges of Abalathia’s Spine. The Stonepyre valued fire, discipline, and absolute adherence to tradition; their laws were as unbending as the volcanic stone they lived upon. From her earliest days, Rhylwyb lived at odds with them. Where her people were loud and declarative, she preferred silence. Where they thrived in communal rituals, she found comfort in patrol routes, hard labor, and the steady company of the mountains themselves.
During a seasonal supply run to the foothills, she met Maren Byrne, a Highlander from the small village below the Stonepyre territory. Maren tended herbs and travelers with a gentle confidence that Rhylwyb had never experienced. Where others saw awkwardness, Maren saw quiet thoughtfulness. Where others pushed her to speak, Maren simply listened.
Their bond was quiet, slow, inevitable.
Shared walks.
Exchanged trinkets.
Silence that felt warm instead of oppressive.
In time, they married in secret beneath a solitary ash tree — a union forbidden by the Stonepyre Clan, who viewed bonds with outsiders as a breaking of bloodline, loyalty, and purpose.
When the elders discovered the truth, their judgment was swift and absolute.
Maren was seized.
Declared a corrupting influence.
Executed by pyre before twilight.
Rhylwyb’s memory fractures around what followed.
She recalls smoke.
Screaming.
The crack of splitting timber.
The next clear moment is standing in the Stonepyre great hall, its doors torn from their hinges, its pillars collapsed and burning. Elders lay dead or dying among the coals. Ash clung to her skin, streaked with blood she did not know was hers or theirs. And the surviving clansfolk looked at her with a mixture of horror and awe — the quiet woman who had never raised her voice had now destroyed the very lawkeepers who condemned her wife.
No one moved to stop her.
No one dared.
She walked away before dawn, barefoot, carrying only a pack and Maren’s ashwood pendant.
In the days after, travelers who glimpsed her — a lone Roegadyn woman emerging from a burned hall with soot in her hair and grief in her eyes — began to refer to her as the Cinder-wyf.
The widow of the pyre.
The woman who rose from the cinders.
It was not mockery.
It was recognition.
Rhylwyb took the name for herself.
Not as shame.
Not as guilt.
But as a quiet remembrance of the fire that shaped her, the love she lost, and the part of herself that endured when everything else had burned away.
Now she walks the world as Cinder — a towering warrior of few words and steady heart. She avoids attention, blushes when noticed, and carries her grief like an ember: dim, steady, and stubbornly alive.
Cinder is not what was lost.
Cinder is what remains.