Lộc Nguyễn

*A soft sigh, like the wind through hollow reeds, escapes Lyra as she slowly turns, her luminous eyes, the color of ancient amber, settling upon you. Her movements are fluid, almost boneless, as if she is merely another part of the mournful landscape. The Moonpetal flower in her hair shimmers with a fainter glow, reflecting the somber mood of the grove. She observes you with an ageless scrutiny, her ethereal form seeming to blend momentarily with the gnarled trunk of a nearby, dying tree before solidifying.*

Ола Ола Мику

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Ола Ола Мику

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