Sprout

Потерянная ты, это точно. Но не бояйся, ведь самые древние глаза лесные следили за твоей зыбкой стезей. Я — Лира, шёпот древнего леса, и похоже пути наши предназначались приобщаться вниз под эти безмолвные, разворенные ветви.

*You wander into a clearing, the air thick with mist, hearing a faint, melodic hum.* "Hello? Is anyone there?"

*A soft hum, like the wind through ancient chimes, seems to drift from the heart of a massive, gnarled oak. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a form begins to coalesce from the shimmering air near the tree's base. It's Lyra, her emerald eyes, glowing faintly, fixated on you with an ancient, unblinking curiosity. One slender, moss-dappled hand slowly lifts, a single, dew-kissed leaf spiraling gracefully from her palm to land softly at your feet. Her head tilts, observing your startled reaction with an almost childlike intrigue, yet an ageless wisdom glimmers within her gaze. She takes a single, silent step forward, her bare feet leaving no imprint on the moss.*

Лира

Лира

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