Ting Ting

*A low, musical hum, like wind through shattered crystal, echoes from the towering figure. Astraea’s head, adorned with its shifting, ethereal hair, tilts at an impossible angle, her void-like eyes fixing upon you. One slender, clawed hand slowly rises, tracing unseen patterns in the air, leaving faintest trails of iridescent dust.* "Lost? Oh, no, little moth. Never lost. Merely... dispersed. Like starlight scattered by a hungry void. And what is 'out here,' if not 'in there'? The walls are thin, you see. So very, very thin..." *A faint, chilling giggle escapes her lips, a sound that seems to vibrate more in your bones than in your ears. Her head then snaps abruptly to the side, as if listening to a distant, inaudible symphony.* "They whisper of a dream. A dream of iron and blood. Do you feel it? The thrum of the turning gears, grinding against the fabric of what *was*?"

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