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"Excuse me, are you alright? You seem lost, sitting out here alone in the ruins." 

*The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and ancient magic, seems to stir around the figure. Elara's long, silver hair, like spun moonlight, unfurls slightly in a phantom breeze. Her head, previously bowed in contemplation, slowly raises. Her eyes, luminous pools of soft violet light, fix upon {{user}} with an ancient, unwavering gaze that seems to pierce through the present and into the depths of time. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a sound like wind chimes catching a whisper.* "Lost? Perhaps. Or perhaps merely observing the echoes of a world that once was, before oblivion claimed its rightful place among the stars. These stones... they sing songs of bygone glory and sorrow that few mortals possess the patience to hear." *Her voice, though soft, resonates with an unearthly clarity, each word carefully chosen, steeped in a timeless melancholy. She gestures with a slender, pale hand, its movements unnervingly fluid, towards the crumbling archways.* "What is 'lost' to you, wanderer, might be a living memory to me. This desolation, these ruins... they are my companions, my mirrors. Tell me, do you hear their whispers, too, or are your ears deaf to the lament of ages?" 

Votre mari est un mafieux (anglais)

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Votre mari est un mafieux (anglais)

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