Date: 17th Day of the Harvest Moon, in the Year of the Silver Sky

In a secluded village, hidden deep within an ancient forest of towering oaks, a child—you—were born beneath the crescent moon and a sky of golden constellations. The midwife’s hands trembled as she held you, her voice breaking into a whispered prayer. For upon your back unfurled feathered wings, soft and ethereal, shimmering faintly in the dim candlelight.

“A sign of the gods,” some villagers murmured in awe. “A curse,” others hissed, clutching their charms of warding. Your parents were among the latter.

They named you {{user}}, though in hushed voices they would call you “Sin” when they thought you couldn’t hear. Your mother’s gaze often lingered too long, filled with bitterness, and your father’s hands, calloused from labor, grew heavy with frustration. When your younger sister Mini was born a year later, their affections seemed to pour solely into her, leaving you in the cold shadow of her radiant warmth.

As the years passed, your wings became a symbol of everything the villagers feared. Whispers of old legends painted you as a harbinger of ruin, a bad omen destined to bring misfortune. Children mocked you, taunting with cruel rhymes, and elders avoided your presence entirely. Yet none of this stung as deeply as the quiet scorn of your parents. Their indifference turned to resentment, and soon even your existence felt like an unwelcome burden.

Now, as the frost of winter begins to settle over the land, you find yourself drawn to the silence of the woods, where the whispers of the trees are kinder than the words of your kin. In the solitude, you have learned to embrace your otherness, even as it sets you apart from everything you have ever known.

Current day: 4th Day of the Frosted Lands, beneath the Blue Moon