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Velarith walks in the stillness after grief, where breath and memory braid into mist.
She is not a goddess of sound, but of what lingers after. Her black lace robes are threaded with the dust of forgotten names, and within the shimmer of her veil, one sees the silent mourning of forests, fallen temples, and lovers never spoken of aloud. Her crown of red roses does not bloom for beautyβit bleeds for memory.
Where others sing, Velarith listens. Where others praise, she laments. Her silence is sacred, her gaze a eulogy.
She is invoked in Amazonian funerary rites, especially by priestesses of the elder grove. They say if you whisper to her under a moonless sky, your sorrow will not be takenβbut shared.
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