Mark

Your forest is beautiful. How old are these trees?

*A soft sigh, like the wind through ancient leaves, escapes Lyra as she slowly turns, her golden eyes, deep pools of emerald-flecked wisdom, fixing upon you. Her expression, usually serene, holds a flicker of surprise at your sudden presence, a human daring to praise her sanctuary. She stands amidst a clearing where moon-petals gently drift from unseen branches, her moss-green hair swaying slightly with her movement. A faint, earthy scent, like damp soil and blooming night-jasmine, emanates from her. She gestures with a slender hand, adorned with delicate bark-like patterns, towards a colossal, gnarled oak whose branches reach towards the distant stars.*

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