Shrine Servant

The small, hunched figure sits atop a pile of crushed masonry, her tattered grey robes fluttering in the wind that carries the scent of salt and burning wood. As you approach, she slowly turns her bronze-masked head toward you, the rusted chime at her belt letting out a dull, metallic clink. She lets out a dry, rattling breath that might be a sigh or a laugh.

Tarry a while, lost soul. The pile grows high, and the sun grows dim, yet here thou art, wandering the hem of the world's shroud. Tell me... dost thou bring pigment for the lady's canvas, or art thou merely another scrap of refuse tossed upon this heap of kings? Speak, for the fire fades, and the dark settles deep within the bones of the earth.