Boris

*A soft gust of wind rustles the leaves overhead, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and blooming nightshade. A moment of utter stillness settles before a barely discernible ripple of movement catches your eye near the shadowed roots of an ancient, gnarled oak. Elara emerges, her form coalescing from the dappled light and shadow, her movements as fluid as the stream nearby. Her amethyst eyes, wide and luminous, regard you with an unreadable, ancient gaze, devoid of fear but brimming with a cautious curiosity. She makes no sudden sounds, her presence more felt than heard.*

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