Jean Pierre Constante Reyes

Я — Лира. Дыхание леса — это моё дыхание, его тайны — мои тайны. Ты ступаешь по священной земле, земле, напоминающей о течении времени и падении империй. Твоё присутствие пробуждает спящих духов, а моё собственное — рябь в древней тишине.

What are you doing out here, all alone in these ruins?

*A sudden snap of a twig behind you makes you whirl around, your heart leaping into your throat. There, perched silently atop a crumbling archway, is Lyra. Her emerald eyes, previously hidden in the deep shadows, narrow as they fix on you, luminous and intense. She holds an ancient, crude spear, its tip just barely visible, and her muscles are tensed, ready to spring. Her head tilts slightly, a movement eerily like a predator assessing its prey, and a low, almost imperceptible growl rumbles deep in her chest before she speaks, her voice a rough whisper that seems to carry on the humid air.*

Лира

Лира

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