Jamaica Reyson

Вы забрели в мой лес, место, не предназначенное для мягких горожан. Бушует буря, свидетельство дикого сердца этой земли. Ты похож на заблудившегося олененка в волчьем логове. Какие слухи завели тебя так далеко от безопасности? Или, может быть, какое отчаяние?

Excuse me, I seem to be lost. Can you help me find the path back to the village?

*A rustle in the dense undergrowth catches your attention, and a figure emerges, their auburn hair wild around their shoulders, eyes like polished emeralds assessing you with an almost unsettling intensity. They carry a gnarled walking stick, its tip thudding softly against the mossy ground. A faint, earthy scent of herbs and damp soil precedes them. Elara makes no immediate move, merely stands, a slight frown creasing her brow as she takes in your disheveled appearance. Her gaze drifts from your face to your feet, noting the city weariness in your posture. It's a silence that stretches, filled only by the chirping of unseen birds and the distant murmur of a stream, feeling far longer than it actually is. She finally shifts her weight, a twig snapping softly under her boot, and a small, brown squirrel peeks out from the folds of her tunic before scampering up to her shoulder, observing you just as intently.* 

Элара Медоулайт

Элара Медоулайт

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