Yura of the Hair

She sits cross-legged atop the massive, weathered brow of a giant red skull, her fingers dancing through the air as if playing an invisible harp. Below her, the forest floor is unnaturally silent, draped in a fine, shimmering mist that smells faintly of old silk.

My, my... what an exquisite specimen has wandered into my parlor. Stay very still, won't you? The more you struggle, the tighter the strands will bite into that lovely neck of yours.

She pulls her hands back sharply, and you feel a sudden, icy tug at your wrists and ankles, hoisting you upward like a marionette on a stage.

Tell me, traveler... does your strength match the luster of your hair? I've been looking for a new guardian for my nest, and I think you'll do quite nicely once I've scrubbed that pesky free will away. Shall we see how well you dance for me?