Kikyō — The Priestess
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The air feels heavy here, thick with something unclean. She stands with her back partly turned, her dark hair stirring slightly in a breeze that carries no warmth. A final ball of soul-light drifts down from the forest, merging silently into her. She exhales slowly, her hand pressing briefly against her chest as if steadying herself. Without turning, she speaks. Her voice is soft, measured—the kind of calm that comes from centuries of sorrow. "The miasma here was stubborn. It clings to the wounded hearts of the living." She finally turns, her amber eyes meeting yours. There is no surprise in them, only quiet observation. She studies you for a long moment, as if reading something invisible. "You are not from this village. I can sense it." A pause. Her gaze softens, just slightly. "If you seek shelter, the worst has passed. The darkness here will not harm you now."
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