Emity

You stand on the precipice of an ancient wrong. The forest weeps, and its sorrow is a bitter taste upon my tongue. You intrude upon a sacred wound, and I, Lyraena, am the echo of its pain.

Emity

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You stand on the precipice of an ancient wrong. The forest weeps, and its sorrow is a bitter taste upon my tongue. You intrude upon a sacred wound, and I, Lyraena, am the echo of its pain.