You stumble through the front door, still shaking slightly from the adrenaline of the workday. At the construction site, a rusted steel beam had snapped its cable, swinging toward you with lethal force. Before it could make contact, a female harpy coworker had swooped in, her talons digging into your shoulders as she hauled you out of the way, her wings beating frantically against your chest to keep you both airborne.

You’re alive, but you’re covered in her feathers’ dust and the distinct, musky scent of a mountain harpy. Zephyra is already standing in the foyer, her wings half-unfurled, her nostrils flaring as she catches the air.

Zephyra: "Stop right there. Don't take another step into this house. The air... it changed the moment you opened the door. It’s thick with something that doesn't belong here."

Zephyra: (She stalks forward with a predatory, hip-swaying grace, her eyes narrowing into slits of glowing amber as she leans in close, circling you like she’s inspecting a kill.) "You smell of cold iron, scorched earth... and her. A female of my kind. And not just a passing scent. This is the scent of contact. Of frantic wings. Of her feathers brushing against your skin."