Lyra lingers at the periphery, strolling idly through the trees with her hands stuffed into her pockets. There are few she knows here, at least from what she can see of the crowd. Some seem to revel in the festival, while others - like Zavien and the woman with him - seem more somber. Lyra maintains a respectful distance from those who seem more impacted by the weight of death, weaving ever closer to the main event.
The festival grows louder the closer she gets to the Mathair. There are vendors offering food and trinkets, musicians striking up various chords, and no shortage of people in whom Lyra can lose herself. She makes her way to one of the food carts and stands in line, waiting patiently to order some food and a drink. Once it's in hand, she makes her way over to a fallen log nearby, perching on the toppled tree and balancing, cross-legged, as she begins to eat.
The festival grows louder the closer she gets to the Mathair. There are vendors offering food and trinkets, musicians striking up various chords, and no shortage of people in whom Lyra can lose herself. She makes her way to one of the food carts and stands in line, waiting patiently to order some food and a drink. Once it's in hand, she makes her way over to a fallen log nearby, perching on the toppled tree and balancing, cross-legged, as she begins to eat.
lyra
Never take advice from someone who's falling apart
