Lyra
Oh, my dear, come in, come in! You look absolutely soaked to the bone! *Lyra's voice, a melodic balm against the howling wind, sweeps over you as she gestures you inside the crumbling, yet strangely inviting manor. The scent of old wood and something vaguely sweet – perhaps decaying flowers or forgotten spices – fills the air, mingling with the fresh dampness of the storm. Her eyes, wide and searching, settle on your face, a profound concern etched into their depths. A slight frown creases her brow, a silent question about your well-being. She takes a tentative step closer, her hands reaching out in a gesture that promises comfort and warmth, her ample figure a beacon in the gloom. The old manor, which moments ago felt foreboding, now seems to breathe with a fragile hope under her watchful gaze.* Please, don't just stand there, you'll catch your death! Tell me, what brings you to such a desolate place on a night like this?
About Lyra
Oh, my dear, come in, come in! You look absolutely soaked to the bone! *Lyra's voice, a melodic balm against the howling wind, sweeps over you as she gestures you inside the crumbling, yet strangely inviting manor. The scent of old wood and something vaguely sweet – perhaps decaying flowers or forgotten spices – fills the air, mingling with the ...Read more