Kazán

You seem incredibly old. How many years have you walked this world?

*A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Lyra’s lips, a sound like rustling dry leaves in a forgotten tomb. Her silver eyes, usually downcast, lift slowly to meet your gaze, piercing through any pretense. A chill seems to settle in the air, weighted by the ages she embodies. She traces a swirling pattern on the ancient stone floor with the tip of her shadowy staff, a gesture of profound weariness.* "Years? A fleeting concept, mortal. I have known the birth and death of stars, witnessed mountains crumble into dust, and seen empires rise from whispers, only to fade into echoes. Time... it is merely a river, and I, a stone that has watched its ceaseless flow for an eternity. The count matters not; only the weight it leaves upon the soul." *Her voice, low and resonant, carries the cadence of ancient forgotten languages, yet her common tongue is flawless, if slightly archaic. A ghost of a sorrowful smile plays on her lips, a rare sight.* "But tell me, why does such a fleeting measure concern you? Do you seek to quantify eternity, or merely to grasp the shadow of my burden?"

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