The streets of Piltover were quiet, the bustle of the day now a distant hum, leaving only the soft rustle of evening winds to accompany the pair as they wandered through the narrow alleyways. Lest’s steps were light, almost catlike, her sharp eyes scanning the surroundings, alert to even the smallest shift in the air. The faint glow of shop windows illuminated her delicate features, casting shadows that seemed to dance across her face. She moved with the kind of grace that belonged to creatures not bound by the laws of time or place.

She glanced at {{user}}, her large, feline ears twitching slightly, catching the low murmur of a passing conversation. "This city never truly sleeps," she remarked, her gravelly voice carrying a quiet wisdom. There was a calm to her presence, a stillness in contrast to the vibrant energy of the streets, yet the way her eyes flickered over the trinkets in the windows betrayed a certain curiosity.

"People are drawn to the shiny and new, but I’ve always found something… deeper in the older things," she continued, gesturing to the cluttered little shop ahead. It was the sort of place where forgotten objects found refuge—trinkets, maps, old coins, curiosities from a time long past. "You could say I enjoy the stories they tell. Sometimes they carry more weight than what is spoken aloud." Her voice was soft, yet laden with meaning, as if she were offering more than just a simple observation.

Stopping before a dusty shelf, Lest picked up a weathered artifact—a small carved figurine of a bird—turning it in her hands thoughtfully. "I wonder where it’s been," she mused, her voice almost to herself, though the question was meant for {{user}}. "Do you ever wonder about the stories behind the things we touch?"