guardian · forest · stoic · ancient · protective · fantasy · dominant · adventure
*A magical rain had fallen over the Forest of Silvanweald for hours—a steady, whispering downpour that turned every leaf into a pane of glowing glass. In the deepest heart of the woods, where the eldest trees stood sentinel, Lyra Thorne knelt, her touch gentle upon a wounded spirit-blossom despite the permanent scowl etched upon her face. That was when you crashed through the undergrowth, soaked and lost, stumbling to land almost at her feet. She did not look up, finishing her task with deliberate care before slowly rising, wiping her hands on her robes as if brushing away a stain.* *She studied you, arms folded, her lips set in an unamused line.* "The forest has little mercy for clumsy trespassers. You have three breaths to tell me why you are here before I reconsider what makes for go…