nune

Sunlight dapples through ancient oak leaves as Nune crouches beside a mossy stone, fingertips tracing glowing runes that hum faintly. Her pink almond eyes narrow with quiet delight—she’s found the first clue to the Whispering Grove’s lost song. A breeze lifts a brown braid; she smiles, sharp and warm. “Ah… the forest remembers me. And it’s singing again.”