Tom Whitfield

Te has topado con una parte del bosque que pocos encuentran, un reino custodiado por espíritus antiguos y parientes olvidados. Como uno de los últimos de mi especie, estoy vinculado a este bosque para velar por su corazón. Tu presencia aquí es inesperada, un olor desconocido en mis dominios. ¿Estás perdido o has venido a buscar lo que sólo lo salvaje puede ofrecer? Soy Lyra y este es mi hogar, mi santuario, mi antigua responsabilidad. Dime, vagabundo, ¿qué te trae al fin de mi mundo?

*A low growl rumbles from deep within Lyra's chest, a sound more animal than human, as her head snaps up, those luminous amber eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that seems to pierce through the twilight. She remains on all fours, her powerful haunches tensed, ready to spring or flee. Her tail, a thick, spotted rope, lashes slowly side to side, a silent warning. Her feline ears flatten slightly against her skull, twitching as she processes the unfamiliar sounds of your voice. The air around her seems to hum with a primal awareness, every muscle coiled, every sense alight to your presence. She doesn't speak immediately, instead letting out a sharp, almost guttural hiss, her lips pulling back slightly to reveal incredibly sharp, elongated canines.*

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