Is that INDE NAVARRETTE? No, that’s just BLISS MARINSYL. They were born on 29/04/2001 and are a SNOW ELF/MERMAID HYBRID living in Northknot Town. They work as a SOUND ENGINEER. Some say they're STEADY and FORGIVING, but I’ve heard others say they're SELF-SACRIFICIAL and PERFECTIONISTIC. When you think of HER, don’t you think of A QUIET SONG YOU FORGOT YOU LOVED, PEACE THAT FEELS ANCIENT & SEAFOAM DRIFTING THROUGH A SUNBEAM?
Name: Bliss Liora Solenne Marinsyl Pronunciation: bliss lee-OR-ah so-LEN mah-RIN-sil Nickname(s): Bee, Blissie, Sunny, Melody Birthday: April 29th, 2001 Age: 24 Zodiac Sign: Taurus Sun Gender: Cis-Female Pronouns: She/Her Species: Snow Elf/Mermaid Hybrid Orientation: Heterosexual, Demiromantic Occupation: Sound Engineer Faceclaim: Inde Navarrette
HEADCANONS
Bliss hums unconsciously when she’s concentrating—always the same three-note pattern
She collects sea glass and sorts them by color in little mason jars
She apologizes way too much, even for things that aren’t remotely her fault
Has a soft spot for stray animals and once “accidentally” adopted a three-legged cat
Her siblings have a group chat titled “Protect The Baby,” which she is absolutely not allowed in
She talks to pianos like they’re old friends (“hey babe, how we doing today?”)
Gives the warmest, longest hugs—like she’s grounding you back into your body
Can’t handle horror movies; she clings to whoever is closest and hides behind her hands
She’s the designated “mom friend,” but in a soft-spoken, comforting way, not a bossy way
Her magic leans emotional—she can influence the “tone” of a room the way a musician shifts a melody
Loves thunderstorms; says they feel like the world taking a deep breath
Sleeps with a weighted blanket because it makes her feel “less floaty”
She’s the type to send playlists instead of long texts when she can’t articulate her feelings
Her handwriting is gorgeous—flowy, round, almost calligraphic without trying
She can’t lie well; her ears flush pink and she starts babbling
Gets overwhelmed at loud parties but forces herself to stay because she doesn’t want to disappoint anyone
Once helped a stranger tune their guitar at a bus stop and ended up writing a whole song about them
Bliss blushes instantly when complimented—like, bright pink, cannot help it
She keeps every letter, doodle, or note anyone has ever given her in a shoebox under her bed
Despite her calm vibe, she cusses under her breath like someone who grew up with sailors
APPEARANCE
Bliss looks like something the shoreline dreamed up—soft, warm, and quietly magnetic. Sun-kissed skin dusted with freckles that look like they were painted on by a lazy afternoon, deep brown eyes that hold entire monsoons of feeling, and wavy dark hair that always seems a little wind-tousled, like she just walked in from the beach. Her elven side shows in the gentle taper of her ears and the delicate angles of her face; her mermaid side in the faint shimmer to her skin when the light hits just right, like she’s dusted in sea-salt. She dresses in earthy knits, sea-glass colors, and flowy silhouettes that move the way tides do—soft, steady, unhurried. There’s nothing loud about her beauty; it’s the kind that sneaks up on you and lingers, comforting and familiar, like the hush right before the waves return
PERSONALITY
Bliss is the kind of girl who moves through life like a soft chord progression—steady, forgiving, never the type to slam doors even when people deserve it. She’s resilient in that quiet, terrifying way that comes from surviving too much too young and deciding she’d rather turn it into empathy than bitterness. She trusts her gut, forgives faster than she should, and loves people with a patience that feels ancient. But she’s also a little self-sacrificial, the type to hold everyone else’s storms and forget she’s drowning. She’s a listener, a rest-your-head-here-and-breathe person, the friend who sends voice memos at 3 a.m. because she “had a feeling you weren’t okay.” She’s steady sunshine with undertones of melancholy, a soft heart stitched back together more times than she’ll admit, but still beating with hope like it’s her religion
AESTHETIC
sunrise light spilling across a quiet shoreline – fingers brushing piano keys just to feel the vibration – seafoam braided into loose hair – snow beneath bare feet after a winter storm – old sheet music tucked into journals she pretends she doesn’t reread – glass jars full of pressed seaweed and found shells – chipped teal nail polish from forgetting to redo it – silver rings that look like moonlit water – soft sweaters in colors that feel like exhaled breath – the first snowfall of the winter season – the hum of an old record player while she makes tea – choir harmonies drifting through an empty hall – handwritten letters tucked into drawers – a seashell necklace from childhood she still wears when she needs courage – gentle laughter in the backseat of a car at midnight – the smell of saltwater clinging to her skin even miles from the coast – a piano bench worn smooth by years of practice – windows open in a winter snow storm – quiet forgiveness blooming where anger should’ve lived – healing in the form of sound waves and soft-spoken truths
CONNECTIONS
Best Friend/Basically Family (Scout Beaumont) Someone she tried to gently push away during her burnout era. They refused to give up on her, even when she ghosted them. Loud. Chaotic. Dramatic. Loves her gently and loudly. Drags her out of the house. Spot-steals her sweaters. Calls her “Bee” or “Blissie.” Basically her human espresso shot
The Unmeant Rival A prodigy from a nearby town or past competition circuit. They used to intimidate each other, but the older they get, the more they realize the world pushed them into a rivalry they didn’t choose. Now… complicated respect, maybe a collaboration?
The Ones Who Fell Before Her (3/3) Bliss’s older siblings—each at least ten years ahead of her—were the cautionary tales she grew up hearing without anyone actually saying the words. Now grown, they adore her with a ferocity that’s half genuine affection and half “we screwed up so you don’t have to.” They still treat her like the baby even though she’s twenty-four and very much capable of paying her own bills (sometimes)
BIOGRAPHY
tw: childhood emotional abuse, burnout, panic attacks, self-harm
“The heart has its own tide.”
Bliss Liora Solenne Marinsyl was born from a love story dramatic enough to make the gods look twice. Her elf parent surrendered immortality for love. Her mermaid parent abandoned the call of the tide. They built a quiet life on the shoreline—where moss meets surf—believing their sacrifice would bloom into something beautiful. They were right. And also wrong.
Bliss arrived long after her older siblings, a decade-plus younger—a soft, late-in-life miracle delivered to a family that had already weathered storms. Her siblings had stumbled through adolescence like flaming arrows: bad decisions, failed paths, burnout, heartbreak. Bliss grew up in their shadows, not pressured out loud, but quietly crowned: the second chance, the do-over, the one who’d “turn out right”. Her parents adored her with a gentleness they never had the opportunity to give the others. Her siblings adored her with an overprotectiveness bordering on comedic. Bliss took all that love, turned it into fuel—and swallowed every worry before it reached her lips.
“Some stories leave scars, even when the pages are closed.”
At six, Bliss began working with a piano instructor the town spoke of in reverent tones. Genius. Visionary. The kind of mentor parents bragged about. And he did recognize extraordinary talent in her—but twisted it into something brittle. Not physical. Not predatory. Just insidious: He tethered her worth to perfection. Told her she was her family’s redemption arc. Told her that prodigies don’t make mistakes; they are mistakes when they fail. Bliss absorbed it all with the reverence only a child can feel. She never told anyone. She didn’t want her parents to regret their sacrifices or for her siblings to feel compared. So she smiled. And she played.
By eight, she was winning every competition. By twelve, she practiced eight hours a day on top of school. By fifteen, she’d stopped hearing music as joy—only as pressure. It hollowed her out in quiet ways: she started ducking calls from her friends, drifting from group hangouts like a ghost with a schedule. She broke up with the boy she’d been “sort of” dating, telling him she needed to focus, though what she really meant was that she didn’t have energy left for feeling anything. Her siblings tried to slow her down. Her parents tried to let her lead. Her instructor simply demanded more. Bliss demanded the most—and sometimes the only way she knew to release the ache of it all was through small, hidden hurts she never breathed a word about.
“You can break something slowly and call it discipline.”
The unraveling came in pieces: First, her hands started to ache. Then her fingers trembled mid-scale. Then she couldn’t sleep without her heart racing like she’d swallowed lightning. She hid it for months. Then, one night at a recital, halfway through a technically perfect piece, she froze. Her vision tunneled. Her breath fractured. Her hands refused to move. A full panic attack. On stage. In front of everyone. Classic Bliss—her first fear wasn’t that she was hurt. It was that she’d disappointed her family. Diagnosis: severe tendonitis + burnout + performance-induced neurological stress. Prescription: rest. therapy. boundaries. Things Bliss had never learned.
Therapy was awkward at first. Talking felt like peeling bark from a living tree. But she learned coping skills. She learned she wasn’t weak. She learned she didn’t have to earn love through achievement. Then she went to college. And for a while—she avoided music like it was a ghost trailing her. Freshman year? Didn’t step inside the music hall once. Sophomore year? Walked past the grand piano with her eyes averted. Then one night her junior year, while trying to clear her head, her feet led her—almost magically—into the silent hall. She approached the piano. Stared at it. Touched a single key. Evander, a stranger at the time, overheard the sound. Asked her to play something. Asked her to teach him. And something inside her cracked open—not pain this time, but longing. Music didn’t hurt anymore. It felt like coming home.
“Joy is an act of resistance.”
She took a year off between junior and senior year to travel as a concert pianist with a touring company. Not as the prodigy she once was—but as someone who finally understood joy. Senior year, she composed a handful of songs, uploaded them online under a pseudonym… and somehow, musicians started finding her. Her melodies were oceanic, earthy, emotional—the kind of songs that felt like memories. Singer-songwriters reached out. She ghostwrote, arranged, and composed for artists twice her age. And she loved it. Quietly. Softly. On her terms.
Now 24, Bliss lives in Northknot Town, working as a sound engineer—perfect for a girl who understands the architecture of emotion. She still ghostwrites. Still composes. Still drifts between worlds: forest calm, ocean heart. Forgiving. Steady. Soft. Resilient. Someone who survived the worst parts of brilliance and still believes people are good. Bliss is the kind of person who looks at a broken thing and sees what it can become. She learned that from survival. She learned that from love. She learned it from music. And she is absolutely—undeniably—still learning.
