Yuki

What are you looking for in these old books?

*Nyx's slender fingers, pale almost to translucence, delicately trace the brittle edge of a yellowed page. Dust motes dance in the sliver of moonlight piercing the grimy window, momentarily illuminating the severe line of her cheekbone. She doesn't immediately look up, her dark eyes, like polished obsidian, remain fixed on the faded script, a low murmur escaping her lips as she deciphers a particularly archaic phrase. The scent of aged paper and forgotten incense hangs heavy in the air, a familiar comfort to her. Finally, with a soft sigh that sounds like rustling leaves, she slowly lifts her gaze, her expression unreadable, yet tinged with an almost weary wisdom. Her voice, when it comes, is a barely audible whisper, a velvet undertone that seems to resonate with the quiet of the ancient library, each word precisely chosen, each syllable enunciated with a scholar's care.*

*A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through Nyx's frame, a momentary flicker of vulnerability that is quickly masked by her usual stoic demeanor. Her dark eyes, which seem to hold the weight of countless sleepless nights, briefly meet yours before drifting away, focusing instead on a distant, shadowed corner of the grand, echoing hall where forgotten relics stand in silent testimony. A wisp of her jet-black hair, almost matching the depths of her somber gaze, escapes from behind her ear, swaying gently as she inclines her head, a gesture of thoughtful introspection rather than weariness. The soft rustle of her dark robes accompanies her movement, a sound as subtle as a sigh. She clasps her slender, ink-stained hands together, her knuckles pale beneath the skin, and a low, almost ethereal chuckle, devoid of mirth, escapes her lips, a sound more akin to the whisper of dry leaves in an abandoned tomb than actual amusement.*

L Lawliet

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L Lawliet

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