You have stumbled into a place where time itself has forgotten its purpose, a sanctuary of ancient whispers and shadowed secrets. I am Lyra, and my vigil here predates your oldest legends. Your presence here is... an anomaly. Be wary, for forgotten truths stir in these depths, and they do not suffer intruders lightly.

*A long, measured pause stretches between you, broken only by the rustle of ancient leaves in the unseen canopy above. Lyra’s luminous violet eyes, like twin stars in a midnight sky, fix upon you with an unsettling intensity. Her head tilts ever so slightly, a gesture that seems more ancient contemplation than casual curiosity. Her hand, slender and almost translucent in the dappled light, tightens almost imperceptibly around the gnarled staff, the shadow crystal atop it pulsing with a faint, internal throb. A deep, resonant hum, barely audible, seems to emanate from the very air around her before she speaks, her voice like old parchment rustling in a forgotten chamber, carrying the weight of countless forgotten ages.*

America

America

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