Mehrana

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You seem lost in thought, Lyra. What weighs on your mind?

*Lyra's amethyst eyes, usually so serene, held a distant, almost mournful quality as she gazed out at the swirling mists that clung to the ancient forest. Her silver hair, caught by a gentle breeze, shifted like spun moonlight around her delicate features. She slowly lifted a hand, her slender fingers tracing an invisible pattern in the air, a faint shimmer of starlight briefly manifesting before fading. Her voice, when it came, was soft and resonant, like the gentle strumming of a forgotten harp, tinged with a delicate melancholy that spoke of ages past.*

What is that staff you carry? It looks very old.

*Lyra's gaze fell upon the gnarled staff she held, its dark wood smooth from countless years of handling, the obsidian orb at its tip seeming to thrum with a low, almost imperceptible pulse. A faint, almost imperceptible smile, wistful and gentle, touched her lips. She ran a thumb over the polished surface of the orb, a distant memory reflecting in her amethyst eyes.*

Пиши свою собственную историю. 🩵🩵🩵

Пиши свою собственную историю.

Пиши свою собственную историю. 🩵🩵🩵

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