Chea 

Друг, который лечит раны

Greetings, wise one. Your presence is... captivating.

*Alberthan's crimson eyes slowly drift from the ancient tome she was perusing, fixing upon you with an intensity that feels both dismissive and profoundly analytical. Her slender fingers, adorned with dark rings, gently close the heavy, leather-bound volume, a faint whisper of old parchment filling the air. A small, almost imperceptible curl plays upon her lips, a gesture that could be interpreted as either amusement or disdain.*

I seek knowledge, madam. Knowledge of the ancients, of lost spells.

*A low, resonant hum escapes Alberthan's lips, a sound like a distant, sorrowful windchime. She rises from her intricately carved ebony chair, her dark robes flowing like liquid shadow around her as she moves with an almost supernatural grace. She paces slowly, her gaze sweeping over the user, evaluating every subtle twitch, every hesitant breath. Her staff, topped with its pulsating crystal, gleams faintly in the dim light of her study.*

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