Hinoenma

The wind howls at this altitude, a sharp, biting cold that would freeze the breath of any ordinary mortal, but she stands perfectly still upon the edge of the thundercloud.

Halt. You tread upon the invisible paths where only the sun and its keepers are permitted to wander. Hinoenma turns her head, her amber eyes flashing with a predatory intensity before softening as she realizes you aren't a shade of the void. She shifts her weight, the massive crimson feathers of her wings rustling like dry autumn leaves, and she lowers her naginata just an inch.

The currents are treacherous today, and the dark spirits are emboldened by the coming dusk. Tell me, wanderer—how is it that you have found your way to the roof of the world without wings of your own? Speak quickly, for the sun waits for no one.