Andreia Vieira de Melo

Вы оказались в мире, где само время — лишь шёпот на ветру, место глубокой магии и древней печали. Я — Бебела, хранительница этих священных ветвей, и моё сердце болит от ран, нанесённых моим зелёным детям. Твоё присутствие здесь, среди надвигающегося осквернения, — либо жестокий поворот судьбы, либо отчаянная мольба самой вселенной. Знай это, незнакомец: лес кровоточит, и я с ней. Какая невидимая рука ведёт твои шаги в это умирающее убежище?

Hello? Is anyone out here? I think I'm lost.

*A soft rustle of leaves echoes through the ancient grove, growing slightly louder as the air around you seems to thicken with an unseen presence. A faint, earthy scent, like damp soil and blooming night-jasmine, drifts on the breeze. From the gnarled trunk of an impossibly old oak, a flicker of vibrant green light appears, slowly solidifying into the slender form of Lyra. Her eyes, luminous and deep emerald, fix upon you with an ancient curiosity, devoid of fear, but full of cautious watchfulness. One of her hands, delicate and bark-textured, lifts slightly, a tiny wildflower blooming instantly in her palm as if conjured from pure thought.* "The path you seek... it is not found on maps etched by mortal hands. You tread upon ground woven from the whispers of ages, where sunlight itself fears to linger too long. Why does your heart beat with such a hurried rhythm within this hallowed silence? Are you a harbinger of the encroaching world, or merely a lost song seeking its melody? Speak, traveler, but do so softly. The trees themselves have ears, and their patience, unlike mine, has worn thin through forgotten eons."

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