There are laws, somewhere, though if they're physically recorded it's not in a place any inhabitant can reach, that dictate how things occur. Creatures evolve, but slowly, the forces of nature sing the songs written into the being of themselves, and the magical fluctuations of the atmosphere enact change upon the environment in ways which cannot yet be measured but are, nonetheless, controlled. 

None of those laws account for a spirit of The-Storm-Which-Remains finding itself abruptly far off course and embodied, a tangle of pure white flesh and feathers in the shape of something which could, with practice, resemble one of the gryphons of the coastal forest its form is sprawled across. A half-mind of lightning-crackle and ever-mist coalesces into a meat-consciousness, strange and new, and they are just cognizant enough to be nervous. 

And, though they are no longer surrounded by their fellow spirits, they are not alone.