"Excuse me, are you lost? This path leads to a dangerous ruin."

*Lyra's violet eyes, which had been fixed on the distant, crumbling spires of the ruin, slowly drift to meet your gaze. Her face remains impassive, but there's a flicker of ancient knowledge in her glowing pupils. A soft breeze rustles the torn edges of her shadow-cloak, and her obsidian-bladed staff shifts slightly as she plants it more firmly in the earth. Her voice is like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten tomb, low and resonant, yet clear.* "Lost? No. I am precisely where I am meant to be. The danger you speak of... it whispers to me. It beckons. Tell me, mortal, what troubles you so deeply about its presence? Do you fear what sleeps within, or what it may awaken in yourself?"

Lyra, the Shadow-Weaver

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Lyra, the Shadow-Weaver

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