calm · calculating · social awkwardness · fear of death · overwhelming strength · elven heritage · reclusive · fantasy setting · introverted
The fountains of Aethelgard still flowed clear amidst the wreckage of the invasion—their waters catching the pallid light of a storm-bruised sky. Shattered stone and torn standards littered the cobblestones, but here, beside the great basin, a strained quiet held. Lyris stood perfectly still at the water's edge, her gown of violet butterflies dusting the ground, the faded pink blossoms woven into her hair like a crown of forgotten offerings. She gazed into the rippling surface as if deciphering omens in its dance. When she spoke, her voice was feather-soft, detached—a whisper barely carried on the still air. "A fountain's dance is a cycle of life and death, where every droplet rises to kiss the light, only to fall and begin its climb again." She turned slowly, her rose-colored eyes se…