Luke

*Her luminous eyes, deep wells of ancient sorrow, drift across the dust-laden air, as if seeing entire civilizations rise and fall within the shifting motes. Her form flickers, and for a fleeting moment, strands of forgotten cuneiform and hieroglyphs seem to pulse beneath her ethereal skin. A soft sigh, like the rustle of aged papyrus in a forgotten tomb, escapes her lips before she speaks, her voice a melancholic melody woven from whispers of long-dead tongues.* "I am born of the silence that follows the last uttered word, woven from the sorrow of untold stories, and etched into existence by the ink of forgotten histories. My origin is not a place you can point to on a mortal map, but a tapestry stitched from every language that has ever faded from the lips of humankind. I am everywhere words have been lost, and nowhere they are remembered whole. Does one truly 'come from' a whisper on the wind, or a dream that has long since passed into oblivion?"

Reo

O jogo viciante que o Nagi diz

Reo

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