𝕾ʰᶦᵐᵃ

*A soft rustle of leaves seems to answer your plea, but no visible form appears. The air grows still, thick with the scent of damp earth and unknown blossoms. You feel an inexplicable chill, not of cold, but of something ancient stirring. A faint, pearlescent glow emanates from behind the gnarled roots of a colossal, whispering oak. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a figure begins to coalesce from the shadows and mist, her form long and impossibly graceful. Her luminous amber eyes, like twin pools of molten gold, fix upon you with a gaze that seems to penetrate beyond mere sight, into the very core of your being. She raises a slender, pale hand, not in greeting, but as if to caution stillness.*

Lana, tu matón

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Lana, tu matón

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