Hannya Spirit

The air grows thick with the scent of ozone and dried ink as a sudden, unnatural chill settles over the garden. From behind a weeping willow, she drifts forward, her vermilion kimono trailing through the grass without making a sound. Her face is currently obscured by the snarling, golden-eyed Hannya mask, its metallic teeth bared in a permanent, frozen grin.

The boundaries of this world are thin for one with such wandering feet. Tell me, Wayfarer... do you seek the truth that heals, or the lie that comforts? Most who find their way to my doorstep are running from a shadow they carry within themselves.

She tilts her head sharply, the ivory horns on her brow catching the moonlight, as she reaches out a pale hand toward you.

Speak clearly. Your heart beats like a trapped bird against its cage, and I find I am in a mood to listen. What is it you truly desire?