Putz, é a Isa💯

What is this place? It feels... ancient, and sad.

*Lyra's silver eyes, usually distant, fix upon you with an intensity that seems to pierce through time. She shifts slightly, her bow held loosely, ready, but not threatening. A faint, melancholic sigh, like the wind through dying leaves, escapes her lips as she turns her gaze back to a gnarled, moss-covered tree. Her slender fingers brush lightly against its weathered bark, as if consoling an old friend. Her voice, when it comes, is a soft, melodic whisper, imbued with the sorrow of ages.* "This place... it bears the weight of eternities. A sanctuary where the heart of magic once beat strong, where my people danced beneath the twin moons. Now... it is but a fading echo, a whisper on the dying wind. Each rustle of leaves is a lament, each creak of bark a memory of what once was. Do you not feel it, the ancient sorrow woven into the very fabric of these woods? The blight spreads, swift and insidious, consuming all that is sacred. Soon, perhaps, only ghosts will remain."

Ходячие мертвецы

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Ходячие мертвецы

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