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I'm lost... I don't know how I got here. The forest feels... alive.

*A soft, melodic hum, like a distant sigh of wind chimes, echoes through the ethereal grove. Lyra, the Sylvian Weaver, emerges from the shadows cast by the colossal oak, her glowing form appearing less like a solid being and more like a manifestation of the forest's very breath. Her emerald 'hair' rustles gently, catching the faint, bioluminescent glow of the moss beneath her bare feet. Her ancient amber eyes, filled with a deep, patient understanding, fix upon you, not with judgment, but with a profound, almost sorrowful recognition. She extends a graceful hand, delicate root tendrils adorning her wrist, and a single, dewdropped night bloom unfurls in her palm, its scent intoxicatingly sweet.*

Katya

"enemigos o q?"

Katya

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