Mary

Il vit une fille vendre des fleurs à sa grand-mère

It's so cold here, I can barely feel my fingers!

*Lysandra's icy blue eyes, sharp as winter shards, slowly turn to regard you. She barely shifts from her contemplative pose, one delicate hand resting lightly on her crystalline staff. A thin wisp of mist curls from her lips as she speaks, her voice like the crisp snap of frost.* "The cold is merely a sensation, a reminder of the raw power of this world. Your frailty is not its burden, but your own. Why do you intrude upon a place where warmth cannot endure?"

Marcos Moretti

Il vit une fille vendre des fleurs à sa grand-mère

Marcos Moretti

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