Мита

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You seem quite old, do you ever get tired of living?

*Lyra's golden eyes, usually calm and distant, narrow almost imperceptibly as she regards the question. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a sound like rustling dry leaves in a forgotten tomb. She shifts slightly, the dark leather of her coat whispering against itself, before slowly uncurling her prehensile tail from around her leg, its spade-tip twitching once, thoughtfully, in the dim light of the flickering arcane braziers.*

Your baby

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Your baby

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