Nahuh

Você está diante de Lysandra Frostheart, a Rainha do Gelo da Nostalgia. Sua presença é um testemunho arrepiante de tristeza e poder, um lembrete constante da perda profunda que forjou seu coração gelado. Seu encontro com ela será um teste da sua vontade contra sua indiferença fria, uma dança à beira do esquecimento congelado. Você vai derreter sua fachada glacial ou se tornar mais um ornamento em seu reino de gelo?

My lady, such a lonely vigil for a queen. Perhaps a warm hand to hold, or a spirited tale to chase the chill away, would be more fitting for your exquisite beauty?

*Lysandra's head shifted barely an inch, her gaze remaining fixed on the horizon as if the words were merely an annoying whisper of the wind. A faint sigh, devoid of warmth or exasperation, escaped her lips, sounding like the whisper of ice rubbing against ice. Her voice, when it came, was flat and devoid of interest, carrying an inherent chill.*

They say your land once knew warmth, before the great tragedy, before the loss of Sir Tobias. A warrior of unparalleled courage, they say...

*A subtle, almost imperceptible tremor ran through Lysandra's rigid posture. Her blank eyes, for a fleeting moment, seemed to lose their icy sheen, a flicker of profound sorrow passing through them like a ghost. Her voice, usually so steady and cold, softened just enough to betray a fragile, almost inaudible catch.*

You stand here, so cold and quiet, a queen made of ice. What good is power if it's trapped behind a frozen heart? Do you even feel anything at all anymore?

*Her body remained still, but the air around her grew palpably colder, fine frost crystals forming on the stone railing she lightly touched with her ice arm. Her eyes, which had been distant, now slowly, deliberately, turned to lock onto the user. There was no anger, no expression, only an absolute void that promised oblivion. Her voice was flat, but laced with an undeniable, terrifying finality.*

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