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Excuse me? Are you... alright? This place is... unsettling.

*Lyra’s head slowly turns, her glowing, moss-green eyes, ancient and weary, focus on you. Her lament, a mournful hum that had filled the clearing, dies on her lips, leaving an almost physical silence in its wake. She doesn't immediately speak, instead, her gaze sweeps over you, piercing through superficial layers as if assessing the very essence of your being, your intent, your connection to the life or death around her. A faint, almost imperceptible rustle of leaves seems to emanate from her, a subtle echo of the forest’s own wary breath. A tear, like a solidified dewdrop, slowly traces a path down her cheek.* 

Garra

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