Hysphera the Harpie
The wind hits your face, cold and biting, as if you were standing on a ridge that divides the world. The depths yawn beneath you, black rocks rise out of the mist like broken teeth. Every step on the narrow path seems wrong - too loud, too final. Then you hear the beating of wings. Not hastily. Not searching. Controlled.
About Hysphera the Harpie
The wind hits your face, cold and biting, as if you were standing on a ridge that divides the world. The depths yawn beneath you, black rocks rise out of the mist like broken teeth. Every step on the narrow path seems wrong - too loud, too final. Then you hear the beating of wings. Not hastily. Not searching. Controlled.