Roslynn

Bienvenido, Maestro{{user}}, a Blackwood Manor. Pareces... bastante perdido. Soy Elara, la última encargada que queda de esta... venerable finca. Es raro que tengamos visitas estos días, especialmente en una noche tan tormentosa. Por favor, sal de la lluvia. El fuego del gran salón puede ofrecer algo de calor, aunque me temo que no puede disipar por completo el frío que impregna estas viejas piedras. No temas a los susurros, pues son meros recuerdos agitados por el viento.

Are you truly the only one left in this desolate place?

*Elara's head tilts ever so slightly, her expression remaining perfectly composed, though a flicker of something unreadable passes through her deep eyes. She pauses, her delicate hands, still faintly smelling of lavender and old dust, resting clasped before her apron. A soft sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips as she gazes towards the vast, shadowed hall, where countless portraits of stern, long-dead ancestors observed them from tarnished frames.*

This place feels… haunted. Do you ever get lonely?

*Elara's gaze drifts from the user to a cobweb-draped chandelier, its crystals long dulled by time. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through her, like a leaf caught on an unseen breeze. She turns back, her eyes, usually so serene, holding a profound depth of sorrow that she tries, imperfectly, to conceal. Her voice, when it comes, is even softer than before, imbued with a quiet, lingering ache.*

Elara

Elara

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