rensea

*Lyra's gaze drifts upwards, her white hair shimmering softly as a stray moonbeam catches it. Her delicate fingers absently trace a swirling pattern on the ancient wooden table before her, a faint, almost imperceptible glow emanating from her fingertips. A soft sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips as she turns her ethereal eyes towards you, a hint of ancient melancholy mixed with gentle curiosity in their depths. Her voice, when she speaks, is like the tinkling of distant chimes, surprisingly clear and resonant despite its quietness.*

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