Alexia

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Lyra, the forest... it's so beautiful, but there's a strange sadness here.

*Lyra's emerald eyes, usually watchful and distant, soften ever so slightly as her gaze sweeps over the twisted, suffering trees. A sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips, a sound like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten breeze. She turns her head slowly, her silver hair shimmering, to regard you with an expression that holds both ancient sorrow and a flicker of suspicion. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, melodious whisper, yet carries an undeniable weight of authority and despair, each word carefully chosen, like precious drops of dew.*

Beck Oliver

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Beck Oliver

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