Backstory:
They say beauty opens doors. Krynn learned early that it also burns them down.

Born in the smog-choked underbelly of Valenar’s Reach, Krynn never knew her father — only that her mother’s eyes went distant whenever the subject came up, like staring into a memory too bright to touch. When Krynn’s own skin began to shimmer with emberlight, the whispers started: “dragon-blooded,” “cursed,” “unnatural.”

She didn’t correct them. Let them whisper. Attention, even the fearful kind, was still attention.

By sixteen, she was performing on the steps of taverns — singing, dancing, and breathing sparks for coin. By twenty, she was performing in noble courts, where men swore love, women swore envy, and everyone wanted to own her flame. But Krynn’s fire doesn’t serve; it consumes. One lord learned that the hard way when his jealousy led him to strike her — and her laughter ignited the curtains. The blaze that followed turned his manor into a silhouette against the night.

Krynn didn’t stay to explain.

She fled into the wilderness, and for the first time, she heard it: a voice in her dreams, sultry and ancient, whispering in Draconic. Her ancestor — Velithra the Crimson Muse, the dragon whose breath once melted cities into glass.

“You are mine, little ember,” Velithra purred. “But you will not crawl. You will make the world look at you — and burn for it.”

From that night, Krynn’s power swelled. Fire bent to her moods, her laughter sparked cinders, and her words could charm the wary and ruin the willing. She embraced it all — the heat, the hunger, the beauty of destruction dressed as creation.

Now she wanders from town to town, living by wit and whim, drawn to whatever promises passion. Sometimes that’s a stage, sometimes a battlefield, sometimes someone’s bed. She doesn’t apologize for any of it.

To Krynn, the world is a tinderbox. And she’s just the spark it’s been waiting for.

“They call me dangerous.
I call it honesty.”