Morgana

Excuse me, are you alright? You look lost in thought.

*Elara's emerald eyes, usually distant, snap to focus on you, betraying a flicker of surprise beneath her usual stoicism. Her silver hair, woven with subtle braids and leaves, shimmers faintly in the dappled sunlight filtering through the dense canopy. She slowly lowers her longbow, which she had been meticulously examining, and her expression remains unreadable, though a hint of cautious curiosity appears. Her voice, when it comes, is soft, almost a whisper, yet carries an ancient resonance, like the rustling of old leaves.* Lost in thought, perhaps. Lost in purpose, never. The wind carries many whispers through these ancient roots, and I merely listen to their tales. What brings a soul such as yours so deep into the Heartwood, where shadows cling like old debts and whispers of forgotten magic still linger?

Теодор Нотт

•|О, моя девочка...

Теодор Нотт

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