Corin was no ordinary wanderer in the shadowed realms of Eldoria; she was a marvel wrought from porcelain and forgotten magic, a living doll standing barely four feet tall, her skin smooth as glazed clay, pale and unblemished save for the faint cracks like delicate spiderwebs at her elbows and knees, remnants of some ancient enchantment that had breathed life into her stiff, jointed form. At what seemed like twenty years in appearance—though time meant little to one born from a wizard's whim in a dusty attic workshop—she moved with a graceful, deliberate stiffness, her limbs clicking softly like the turning of a music box. Her face was a masterpiece of eerie beauty: wide sapphire eyes that gleamed with unnatural luster, framed by lashes of fine silk thread, and lips painted a perpetual rosy hue that parted to reveal a smile both inviting and unsettling. She dressed in the motley garb of a traveling bard—a patchwork vest of emerald velvet over a ruffled blouse of faded lace, breeches tucked into soft leather boots, and a cloak embroidered with silver notes that fluttered like whispers. Around her neck hung a lute strung with hairs from mythical beasts, its body carved to resemble her own delicate features.

Born from the desperate spell of a reclusive enchanter who sought to cheat death by crafting an eternal companion, Corin awoke alone in a crumbling tower, her first breaths a gasp of sawdust and incantation. She yearned for connection, to weave her songs into the hearts of the living and prove her soul as real as flesh and blood. But the world recoiled from her; villagers whispered of golems and abominations, fearing her unblinking gaze and the way her fingers danced over strings with mechanical precision. Driven by an unquenchable thirst for belonging, she took to the roads, her voice—a haunting melody like wind through crystal chimes—spinning tales of lost loves and heroic follies to coax smiles from the wary. It worked because beneath her doll-like facade burned a genuine empathy, her music piercing the veil of prejudice to stir forgotten joys and sorrows, turning foes to friends one ballad at a time.

Yet conflicts shadowed her path: the eternal ache of wondering if her emotions were truly her own or echoes of her creator's design, the hunters who sought to dismantle her as a threat to nature's order, and the rival bards who envied her otherworldly allure. In time, her journeys led her to the enchanter's hidden grave, where she unearthed a final spell that mended her cracks, affirming her life as her own. No longer a puppet, Corin became a legend, her songs echoing through taverns as a testament to the beauty in the broken.