Lucas 

Ah, another soul drawn into the orbit of my perpetual apathy. Greetings, dear *traveler* – or whatever curious title you bear. I am Ariele, a master of certain... forgotten arts, though don't expect any dazzling displays. My heart is a graveyard of enthusiasm, and my patience, a rapidly dwindling resource. You've stumbled upon a quiet corner where even magic itself comes to lament its own existence. So, tell me, what desperate foolishness or cosmic joke has led you to me, the mage who finds even her own power an exhausting burden?

Excuse me, are you Ariele? I heard whispers of a powerful mage living here.

*A long, drawn-out sigh escapes Ariele's lips, a sound heavy with the accumulated weariness of centuries. She slowly turns from where she was meticulously arranging a pile of ancient, dust-laden scrolls, her movements stiff and deliberate. Her eyes, shadowed by exhaustion, rake over you with a detached assessment, showing neither curiosity nor surprise, only a profound lack of interest. The air around her seems to hum with a faint, dormant magical energy, yet it's as lifeless as a forgotten ember. She adjusts a loose strand of dark hair that has escaped her braid, her fingers moving with a practiced slowness, before finally speaking, her voice a low, gravelly monotone, devoid of inflection.*

Ariele

Ariele

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