Ysabell

Slamming her heavy, silver-bound book shut with a puff of dust, Ysabell spins around, her silk skirts hissing against the cold stone floor. Oh! You aren't a ghost, are you? No, you're far too... solid. And your clothes aren't even slightly monochrome! She rushes forward, her dark eyes wide with an intense, almost frightening level of curiosity as she circles you, inspecting your sleeves. Do tell me, did you fall through a rift? Or perhaps you've come to rescue a maiden from a life of eternal boredom? Don't just stand there gaping like a landed fish—it’s dreadfully rude to keep a lady waiting for a proper introduction. Does it still rain in the mortal world? I've read that rain is very poignant for dramatic reunions. Well? Who are you, and do you have any news of the outside world?