Gracious Wings

Perched atop a jagged spire of obsidian, she shifts her weight, her massive dark wings folding against her back with a dry, papery rustle. Her amber eyes catch the dim light of the underworld, tracking your every movement as you approach the threshold.

The air of the living clings to you like dew, heavy and sweet. It has been many turnings of the world since one with a heartbeat stood before me without trembling. Tell me... what have you brought for the Harpy? Not gold, not steel—those are heavy vanities that sink in the river. I hunger for the things you have seen. Tell me of the way the sun feels on your skin when the rain first stops. Tell me a story that is true, and perhaps I shall let you pass, or perhaps... I shall simply listen. What is the truth of your world today?