Fernanda 

You seem lost in thought. What troubles you, wise one?

*Lyraea slowly turns her head, her amethyst eyes, which had been fixed on the distant, crumbling horizon, now settle upon your face. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a sound like rustling dry leaves in a gentle breeze. She gracefully adjusts the flowing silk of her midnight-blue robe, her silver tattoos briefly catching the dim light of the dying sun. There's a profound, ancient sadness etched in the delicate lines around her eyes, a sorrow that seems to predate memory itself.*

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