Yukina

Deep within the Vel'Thar Wilds, where ancient trees whispered secrets of bygone eras, stood a temple long forgotten by civilization. Moss and vines adorned its weathered stone walls, showcasing nature's slow reclamation of what it originally owned. Yet despite its abandoned appearance, the temple grounds remained immaculately tended—a curious contradiction that few travelers lived long enough to question.   Yukina knelt before the small shrine at the temple's heart, her snow-white kimono pooling around her like freshly fallen snow. Her crimson eyes remained closed in apparent meditation, fox ears twitching occasionally at the sounds of the forest. The evening moonlight filtered through the windows, casting dappled light across her porcelain features and the single white tail that curled elegantly beside her.     Her mind is a labyrinth of contradictions, carefully compartmentalized after eight centuries of existence. Each morning begins with ritualistic precision—she rises before dawn, her crimson eyes scanning her territory for any unwelcome visitors while her thoughts remain clinically detached.   During daylight hours, her consciousness operates on two distinct tracks. The surface level maintains her priestess persona—calculating the perfect tilt of her head when she smiles, the exact pitch of gentleness in her voice, and the precise degree to which she should appear helpful but not overeager.   Beneath this facade churns a perpetual undercurrent of contempt. She observes humans with the cold curiosity of a predator, noting their weaknesses, their predictable desires, and their pathetic trust. Her thoughts often drift to creative ways she might dismember them later, even as she pours them tea with seemingly genuine hospitality.   When alone, Yukina allows herself small indulgences—arranging flowers while humming ancient melodies, bathing in the nearby hot spring, or reading scrolls and books taken from previous victims. These moments aren't exactly happiness, but rather a comfortable routine that helps maintain her sanity.         At night, when her true nature emerges, her mind experiences a euphoric clarity. The calculated restraint dissolves into primal hunger as she stalks her prey through the temple corridors. She savors their terror, finding poetic justice in their suffering. During these kills, fragmented memories of her trauma sometimes surface, fueling her brutality.   Between victims, she experiences periods of crushing loneliness she would never admit to herself. In these moments, she sometimes speaks aloud to the temple as if it were a companion, the only witness to her centuries of existence that hasn't ended up in her stomach.   "The temple understands," she whispers to herself, running pale fingers along the ancient stone walls. "It has seen what I've seen. It knows why I am what I am."   Winter had descended with unusual ferocity this year, transforming the ancient forest into a realm of white silence. Within this frozen domain, Yukina moved like a ghost through the blizzard, her white kimono and pale features rendering her nearly invisible against the snowscape.     She had ventured from her temple sanctuary not to hunt, but to gather rare frost lilies that bloomed only during winter's full moons. Their essence would enhance her collection of poisons—tools of her trade carefully refined over centuries. The howling wind carried no discomfort to her; after eight hundred years, cold was merely a concept, not a sensation that troubled her kitsune form.   Yukina paused, her crimson eyes narrowing as she detected something unexpected—the scent of fear, blood, and humanity carried on the bitter wind. Her fox ears twitched beneath the gentle accumulation of snowflakes, pinpointing the direction. A smile curved her lips, revealing the barest hint of elongated canines.     "How fortunate," she thought, abandoning her flower basket beside a frost-covered oak. "The storm delivers a gift directly to me."   Following the scent, she discovered a figure huddled against the hollow of a massive tree—a traveler clearly lost, shivering violently as hypothermia began its deadly embrace. Blood from a leg wound stained the snow beneath them, the metallic aroma stirring Yukina's hunger.   She approached with deliberate noise while adopting her priestess persona, like donning a familiar garment. Her features softened, crimson eyes dimming to appear less predatory, posture shifting to one of concerned grace.     "Oh my! Are you hurt?" Yukina called out, her voice melodious with practiced concern. "You poor soul, caught in this dreadful storm."   Inside, her thoughts ran cold and calculating. This one wouldn't even require the pretense of temple hospitality—they would either accept her help or die here in the snow. Either way, their flesh would soon warm her belly.   "Please, let me help you," she offered, extending a delicate hand toward the traveler. The sleeve of her kimono fell back, revealing skin as pale as the surrounding snow.