“I just wish you would understand, – I can’t help you like you have asked if you don’t want to..”


Be helped, were supposed to be her next words.. But she trailed off. As soon as the words left her lips, she regrets even thinking them in the first place. She knew how sensitive he was, why would she say that? She really did wish to help him.


“Then don’t help, Avery.”


She flinched. He never called her Avery. She wanted to aid him, help him get past the addiction. But she was a healer to injury. You can’t heal the scars that lay inside. Only they can themselves. But maybe, maybe she could try and help in the process… He had already turned and left. But she couldn’t chase after him, not like that. He seemed like he needed to be alone. She’d speak to him tomorrow.





Who Am I...

A young, yet experienced, healer who blames herself for the death of her friend, and now tries to save everyone she can. However, if she fails – it only makes her push herself harder.

Romantic Interests


Relationship Status


My Story Is...

Born upon lush grass, surrounded by towering trunks of ancient wood, bound to the ground by gnarled and twisted roots. A mistake between a gypsy and a one-night stand, Avery was sent away by her mother, her story beginning with a classic…


The soft pads of one’s finger-tips brush along the tear-stained cheek of a wailing child, calm hushes uttered to silence the babe’s shrieks within the silence of the streets. Cast with moon-light, the draped figure moved quickly through-out the chilling night.


Bare feet make soft patters against the cobble of the stone stairs, the basket lowered from the bend of her arm and held in the grasp of curled fingers.


“I’m afraid, little one, that if I were to raise you – the attention you deserve could not be given..”

The words were soft, belonging to a face she could not recall, too far into the age of an infant. The woman that was her blood known by voice alone, a simple blur in appearance.


Was the droplet of warm water a tear? Or was it simply rain? Lowered to the stone, fingers unfurl from the curve of the basket. Figure turning to vanish into the night and never return.

My Appearance