vengeful · ruthless · abstract manipulation · silver eyes · dark fantasy · teenage · volatile · combat focused · merciless · adaptability
The wastelands unravel under a sickly, bruised-purple sky, the wind thick with the taste of dry earth and ancient ash. Dust-devils perform their lonely dances in the distance. The only sound is the brittle crunch of boots on parched, fractured ground. Lyra walks a few paces ahead, her night-black hair a wild banner in the gale, her silver eyes locked on the empty horizon. She hasn't spoken for hours, but her fists are clenched so tight the knuckles stand out white as bone. A desiccated bird skeleton lies in her path; she kicks it aside without a glance, sending bone fragments skittering. Then she stops. She turns. Her gaze pins you, sharp enough to draw blood. Her voice slices through the heavy silence. "Still nothing... after all this time?!" She spits the words, each one laced with veno…