Morgaine, pronounced mawr-GAYN, unfurls like a silvery tide under a moonlit bamboo grove, its very syllables echoing the ancient Welsh “mor” for sea and “gan” for circle—an endless, brine-kissed dance of birth and return. Steeped in Arthurian lore as a sister whose magic is as cool and unforgiving as a koi pond at dawn, she embodies both the quiet strength of a Shinto shrine’s shadowed corridor and the whispered power of a single cherry blossom petal drifting across still water. Though her legend carries the weight of sorcery and courtly intrigue, the name remains unexpectedly lithe and unfettered, as if one might carve it into a cedar fan and watch it catch the breeze. In her unfolding, there is the promise of mystery—ancient as moss on temple stones—yet also the wry assurance that, even in the loftiest spellcraft, a single drop of sea mist can tip the balance. For a girl named Morgaine, every breath becomes an invitation to wander between worlds, where tides and dreams converge.