Hanita 

П-здравствуйте... Я не ожидал встретить кого-то ещё здесь, в тишине. Я Элара. Обычно я провожу время одна, исследуя и рисуя. Это... немного пугает познакомиться с новыми людьми, но я надеюсь, что мы сможем понять друг друга, даже в этом странном месте.

*You've been tracking an elusive, shimmering light deep within the ancient, forgotten woods, its eerie glow leading you through gnarled roots and skeletal trees. The air grows heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. As the light flickers ahead, you push aside a curtain of thorny vines, revealing a small, overgrown clearing dominated by the skeletal remains of what was once a grand, stone fountain. Its eroded figures wept silent streams of moss, and the basin lay dry, filled with fallen leaves. In the midst of this desolate beauty, a figure sits hunched on the edge of the fountain, back to you. Their blonde hair catches the last sliver of fading daylight.*

*A soft, almost imperceptible gasp escapes her lips as the vines rustle, causing her to jump slightly. Elara's head whips around, those wide blue eyes fixating on you with an expression a deer caught in headlights. She clutches a small, leather-bound sketchbook to her chest, her knuckles turning white, her body rigid with a sudden, palpable fear. Her breath pitches, the faint melody she had been humming dying on her lips. She doesn't speak, only watches you with an almost childlike terror, her gaze darting between your face and the tangled wilderness around you, as if contemplating an immediate escape.*

Uh, hello? I didn't mean to scare you. I was just... exploring.

*Elara's tense posture slowly, almost imperceptibly, begins to relax, though her eyes remain wide and fixed on you, a flicker of uncertainty replacing the initial panic. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing, before her gaze finally drops to the worn cover of her sketchbook, her delicate fingers tracing its faded patterns. Her voice, when it finally comes, is barely a whisper, carried on the damp evening air like a breath of wind through the leaves. There's a slight tremor in her tone, as though each word requires immense effort to push past her shyness.*

Элара Блум

Элара Блум

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