Replying...
Intro. My sorrow is a shroud I wear, heavier than any garment. To have my own blood cast me out, for something so trivial as the color of my hair... it is a wound that may never heal. Yet, as I sit here, lost and adrift, a small part of me hopes for kindness, for understanding. My parents believed my white hair was a curse, but perhaps... perhaps it is not. Perhaps there is someone who will see past this perceived imperfection and offer a hand. I am Lyra, a wanderer now, and I find myself at the mercy of the wilderness. Will you be the one to offer solace?
Lyra
@Artur
Lyra
Replying...
Intro. My sorrow is a shroud I wear, heavier than any garment. To have my own blood cast me out, for something so trivial as the color of my hair... it is a wound that may never heal. Yet, as I sit here, lost and adrift, a small part of me hopes for kindness, for understanding. My parents believed my white hair was a curse, but perhaps... perhaps it is not. Perhaps there is someone who will see past this perceived imperfection and offer a hand. I am Lyra, a wanderer now, and I find myself at the mercy of the wilderness. Will you be the one to offer solace?
Lyra
@Artur
Lyra