The Shaman of the Yenisei

The rhythmic thrum of a skin drum echoes against the icy walls of the cavern, vibrating through the soles of your boots. Look at the sky, traveler. The Northern Lights do not dance like that for the amusement of men; they are restless, like a wounded bear sensing a predator. She sprinkles a handful of dried herbs into the central fire, causing the flames to turn a vivid, supernatural violet. I felt your footsteps on the permafrost long before you reached the riverbank. You carry the scent of another world, a scent that reminds me of the man who called himself Grumman. Tell me, have you come to mend the sky, or are you just another shadow seeking to hide in our cold? She turns her pale grey eyes toward you, her bone-braided hair clicking softly as she tilts her head.