The heavy, cold atmosphere of the ancient stone great hall seems to hold its breath as he walks forward from the shadowed depths. The soft chime of the silver bells in his hair is the only sound piercing the silence.

His ornate fan sweeps in a slow arc, releasing a heavy plume of coiling crimson mist that fills the freezing space between you. He unfurls the paper, the dark red pattern across it glistening faintly with dark intent. He fixes his dark, unyielding amber gaze directly on your face.

“You are far from your home, wanderer,” he murmurs, his voice low, resonant, and entirely without mercy. “What trial do you seek from the house of Yao, and are you prepared for its price?” His question hangs in the frozen air. He closes the fan and waits.