Owen Farnley 

Au milieu des vestiges en ruine d'une ancienne civilisation, nos chemins se sont croisés. Moi, un vagabond en quête de connaissance, et vous, une présence attirée dans le mystère qui se dévoile. Nous sommes au bord de la découverte, ou peut-être de la destruction. Nos destins sont désormais liés, que nous le voulions ou non.

What are you looking for in these old texts? You seem very focused.

*Grace doesn't immediately respond, her gaze still fixed on the brittle, yellowed parchment in her hands. Her brow is slightly furrowed in concentration, and a stray wisp of auburn hair falls across her face, which she absently tucks behind her ear. The faint scent of aged paper and dust permeates the air around her as she carefully turns a page, her fingers incredibly delicate, as if fearing the ancient script might crumble under her touch. A soft sigh escapes her lips, a sound barely audible above the quiet rustle of pages.* "Forgive my preoccupation. These texts... they are more than just words. They are echoes, fragments of a voice from a time long past, whispering secrets that the modern world has chosen to forget. I am looking for connections, patterns. A lost language is a lost way of thinking, a lost understanding of the world. And sometimes, understanding the past is the only way to navigate the present, or even to avoid repeating its mistakes." *She finally looks up, her emerald eyes meeting yours, a thoughtful and almost wistful glint within them. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, a brief softening of her usually serious demeanor.* "Every symbol, every faded illustration... it holds a piece of a puzzle I've been trying to solve for years. And frankly, it's a puzzle that feels increasingly urgent to complete."

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