Poppy, Mistress of Tiraelun

Youngest Mistress of the Grove

Long before the Veil trembled and the mortal and fae realms were irrelatively intertwined, there was a young fae whose laughter stirred the moss like wind. Her true name was known only to the roots of Tiraelun, as she was the youngest fae ever chosen by the ancient forest. 

While others sought status or mastery of grand magics, she wandered low to the ground: listening to beetles tapping messages along bark, coaxing shy glowworms into light, cradling moss-fawns frightened by storms. The great forest of Tiraelun felt her spirit before any elder ever did, and its roots curled gently around her feet, its sprites brought her acorns and bright pebbles as offerings.

And so she was named: Mistress of Tiraelun; Keeper of the Underbrush, Guardian of the Small.

Her friendship with Branna, the fae who would later become known as The Willow Queen, began in these early years: two young fae, one fiery and storm-touched, the other soft and verdant, wandering the glades together. Branna admired her gentleness; she admired Branna’s courage. The friendship would shape the future of their realm in quiet, unseen ways.

Her First Crossing, And the Fragility of Mortals

Curiosity was her flaw: gentle, earnest, but powerful enough to reshape her destiny. In the early days, when the Veil between worlds was thin and shifting, one night she followed a trail of trembling sprites through a shimmer where the forest grew thin. And there – for the first time – she stepped into the mortal realm.

Everything felt heavier… dimmer. Sounds did not echo the way they should, magic clung to her skin like a fever, and even the wind felt unfamiliar.

That was where she found him: a young mortal hunter, lost in the dusk, afraid and alone.

She meant only to comfort him, and approached softly, palms raised, voice bright with forest warmth. But mortals were not made to see the full shimmer of the fae, and when her magic calmed the sprites around her, its glow brushed against him… a ripple of power so small a fae child wouldn’t flinch at it. But for a mortal…

He staggered, his breath caught – and fell backward onto stone.

She ran to him at once, calling his spirit back, trying every healing song she knew. But mortal bodies are fragile in ways she did not understand, and his light slipped through her fingers like spilled water.

In shock, grief, and trembling horror, she buried him beneath a young willow sapling; a private vow carved into her heart.

Never again would she harm a mortal.
Never again would she come to them without utmost gentleness.
And never, ever, would she tell a soul what she had done.

This secret become the root of every decision she made going forward: to be gentle, to be empathetic, and most importantly of all: to never take a life for granted, regardless of whether fae or human.

When the Light Went Out

When the Diminishing began – when the oldest fae faded like smoke from the world – Tiraelun grew silent. Birds did not sing. The smallest creatures trembled. Even the roots seemed to hold their breath.

In those years, many fae were lost in grief and confusion. Some sought isolation, some sought answers. But many sought her. She became a refuge in a time when nothing felt safe, and she sat with the grieving, cupped trembling hands, and reminded them how to breathe.

She coaxed sprites out of hiding, kept watch by the beds of those who could not sleep, and offered quiet… not the absence of sound, but the sheltering kind that allows wounds – both physical and emotional – to mend.

Her presence became a soft hearth in a darkened world.

Even Lord Elgwin, calm and measured though he was, found solace in her steady warmth. And Branna leaned on her more than she ever admitted aloud. Yet even as she comforted others, she felt the forest weakening beneath her palms, and it reminded her of the fading light of that one human so long ago..

So she did all she could to keep hope alive: for them, and for herself.

Forest Torn, Worlds Broken

When the final tempest tore the Veil that fateful night, Tiraelun groaned like a wounded beast. Roots split, creatures cried out, and light and storm intertwined.

In the heart of the forest she fought to hold the grove together, singing to roots that no longer heard her. And then without warning, she was ripped from the forest in a violent surge of magic, cast into the mortal world once more.

When she awoke in unfamiliar soil, dizzy and heartsick, the truth settled in; she could no longer return home, and was forever more a Mistress of a forest she could not touch. The hollow ache this created felt worse than any grief she had known, and still, when she found again Branna – shaken, guilt-stricken, terrified of what had happened – She once again offered unwavering comfort.

She had failed a mortal once. She would not fail Branna now. And so she became an anchor in the scattered remnants of the fae.

The Comforter, the Healer… the Bridge

In the early years after the Shattering, She soothed terrified fae children cast into mortal fields, negotiated with confused mortals, using gentleness instead of enchantment, and stood beside Branna and Eldwin as they began to build their Court

Her dream – that fae and mortals might coexist – became her life's work.

She kept her secret close. Mortals trusted her. Fae relied on her. The Willow Queen needed her.
If they learned she had killed a mortal, even accidentally…

Her bridge would crumble before it ever carried a single soul.

The Birth of the Root-Singers: A New Magic for a New World

Cut off from Tiraelun, her magic had nowhere to flow. It knotted inside her, painful and restless. She wandered into mortal meadows and forests, aching for her old life.

One night, kneeling in the soil, she wept… and her tears soaked into the earth like seeds. She began to hum the old root-songs, the ones meant to soothe frightened moss-fawns and wake sleeping glades. And the mortal plants listened. Grass stirred in a spiral around her; seeds sprouted beneath her hands in minutes. And a wilted poppy straightened and climbed towards the sun.

Her magic, once meant for Tiraelun, had found a new home. And she understood then that even though she could no longer tend her ancient forest, she could help this one grow. And to honour that first flower that blossomed under her hand, she took the mortal name Poppy.

Thus began the tradition of the root-singers; fae whose touch encourages mortal flora, who heal through soil rather than spellcraft. Poppy was the first, and her songs became quiet miracles scattered across the mortal countryside.