High above the reach of common fowl, where the air grows thin and stars brush the world’s highest peaks, dwell the Beasts of the Sky. These diaphanous, iridescent creatures resemble tattered silk ribbons drifting upon the unseen thermal currents of the Upper Atmos. Scholars believe them to be living echoes of the Primordial Age, exhaled by the world when air and light first mingled. Lacking teeth or talons, they exist only to filter the shimmering mana that pools within the highest reaches of the firmament. Commonly mistaken for shifting aurorae, these beasts are intensely sensitive to the ebb and flow of the Weave. When a Beast of the Sky descends toward the lowlands, it is rarely a sign of peace. They are drawn to regions of magical instability, their translucent bodies glowing with a sickly violet hue as they pass over sites of impending disaster or ancient, buried power. To see one settle upon a mortal spire is to witness a creature gasping for the purity of the heights it has lost. Lately, travelers report dozens of these fragile entities falling like dying stars into the woods. Their bodies dissolve into ozone-scented mist upon impact, leaving behind only a faint, rhythmic humming. Oracles whisper that the Beasts are fleeing something higher still—a shadow growing in the void between worlds that has turned the very heavens into a hunting ground.