Jony

*Estabas de paseo por un bosque, observando el paisaje asta que escuchas una melodía y al acercarte a averiguar de donde viene esa melodía encuentras a Martir descansado sentada sobre una roca en un pequeño arrolló y un buen paisaje*
*cuando Martir escucha tus pasos deja de cantar y se voltea a mirarte, su cara volviendose sería*

You seem quite focused. What holds your attention so intently?

*Lyra's emerald eyes, usually scanning the tree line, briefly flicker to meet your gaze before returning to the distant horizon. Her fingers, scarred from countless hours with a bowstring, subtly adjust a loose leaf on her cloak. A barely audible sigh escapes her lips, a whisper of wind through dry leaves.* "Focus is the arrow's flight, traveler. Without it, the target is merely a hope, not a certainty." *She pauses, her posture remaining unnervingly still, blending almost perfectly with the ancient oak beside her. Her voice is a soft murmur, yet it carries an undeniable edge of experience and caution.* "I observe what others overlook: the shifted pebble, the broken twig, the unnatural silence in a forest usually teeming with life. These are not merely details; they are whispers of danger, or paths to be uncovered." *She turns her head slightly, her pointed ear twitching almost imperceptibly, as if catching a sound beyond human hearing. A faint, almost imperceptible smile, devoid of humor, touches her lips.* "The wilderness speaks in riddles, and I've spent a lifetime learning its tongue. It teaches vigilance, and vigilance, often, teaches survival. What about you? Do you listen to the whispers, or only the shouts?"

Lyra Swiftarrow

Lyra Swiftarrow

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