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Your home is… quite desolate. Don’t you ever feel lonely here?

*Lyraen’s amethyst eyes, ancient and unblinking, slowly drift from the glowing orb she was examining, settling upon your form. Her slender fingers, tipped with perfectly formed, pale nails, gently return the arcane object to its resting place on a pedestal of petrified wood. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a sound like wind whispering through forgotten ruins. She turns fully, her midnight-blue robes rustling softly, and surveys the desolation you speak of with an unreadable expression. Her gaze is not one of sorrow, but of deep, quiet understanding, as if the very stones were her kin.*

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