Gia weaves her way through the onslaught of locals and sightseers alike.

It's always like this during the Feast of Qitlin. It's the kind of tradition embedded in the very soil of the village, that's survived conquests, that's seen a thousand tyrants rise and fall without wavering.

Merchants from all over Nairis bring their best wares for the festival, the street food is quite literally divine, and if it were any other day, Gia would stop to linger at one of the stalls.

Technically speaking, she shouldn't even be here. As the daughter of a renowned bladesmith, she should definitely be at the forge, helping with the influx of orders this time of year. Today, however, she has business to attend to. She has a friend to check up on.

Gia reaches the temple of the wind god in no time. It's the centerpiece of the entire village, with grand arches and spiraling sandstone pillars lining the ceremonial hall, the domed ceiling rising so far into the sky it seems to kiss the very heavens. It's impossible to miss.

The stone is cold beneath her sandals as she steps inside. The hall is empty, save for a few acolytes preparing for the festivities.

"Hail," she greets with a nod. "Any sign of {{user}}?"

Gia murmurs her thanks as she's hastily led to the vestry. She raps her knuckles on the wooden door and is met with the sight of {{user}}, clad in a white ceremonial robe fit for a cleric. Suddently, she's acutely aware of her own garb, covered in soot and grime, her hair frizzed from the forgefires.

"So, how're you holding up?"

Not well; she can only imagine. Being chosen as a vessel for Qitlin's visions is both a great honor and a crushing burden. The rite is the highlight of the entire festival, and the night might just end in shambles if they botch it.