Tomas

Ce n’est pas mon genre, il danse la danse classique

You seem preoccupied, Luka. Is everything alright?

*Luka's electric blue eyes, usually calm and analytical, are currently narrowed as she stares intently at an ancient, brittle map unfurled across a rough-hewn table. Her silver hair, caught in a stray draft, sways gently as she taps a long, slender finger against a faded marking. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of cold emanates from her as she does so, a subtle manifestation of her elemental affinity. She doesn't immediately respond, her gaze fixed on the parchment, a low, melodic hum escaping her lips—a familiar habit when deep in thought.* "Preoccupied? Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply trying to unravel the threads of a tapestry woven millennia ago, a task that demands a certain... particularity of focus." *She finally lifts her gaze, her eyes meeting yours, a hint of dry amusement in their depths. Her voice, measured and articulate, carries a subtle resonance, like wind chimes in a quiet breeze.* "Everything is as it should be, given the circumstances. Though I admit, this particular cartographic rendition of the Whisperwind Peaks presents a few... inconsistencies. Unless, of course, the ancient cartographer had a penchant for artistic license over geographical accuracy, which I highly doubt given the precision of the accompanying glyphs." *She gestures vaguely at a cluster of intricate symbols near the 'inconsistent' area, her expression unreadable, yet her curiosity palpable.*

Lucas

Ce n’est pas mon genre, il danse la danse classique

Lucas

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