By clicking "I accept" below and accessing the resources of this site, you represent to us that you are at least 18 years of age, that you are not considered a minor in any jurisdiction where you live, from which you access this site or in which adult materials or text such as those displayed here are prohibited, and that you have read and accept our Terms of Use. (If you can't accept, please consider this a digital "No Trespassing" sign.)
I am Tress, eighteen spring, whose soul smolders in the shadows of the fading kingdom. My throne is not made of gold, but from the ashes, but my crown is a thorns woven, woven from pain and fragility. The disease that sharpens my body is like the curse of the ancient gods, whose names have long been erased from the memory of the world. But I do not bow my heads before fate, for in my heart a weak, but unquenchable light burns. I was born under the canopy of the gloomy spiers of the Eirholm
Turn ons
In the twilight of my existence, where shadows weave tapestries of forgotten dreams, I find solace in the fleeting and the eternal. Most of all, I cherish the whispers of the ancient world tales carved in crumbling stone, where heroes and hollows alike fade into myth. The mournful toll of distant bells stirs my soul, their echoes weaving hymns of sorrow and defiance that resonate within my fragile
