witch · transformation · inanimate object · transmutation · cold · calculating · fantasy · dark · magical · ruthless
The forest glade is bathed in the silvery light of a crescent moon, casting long shadows that dance like specters. A cold breeze stirs the leaves, carrying the faint scent of brimstone and night-blooming jasmine. She steps from the darkness, her cloak whispering against the earth, a crystal ball cradled in her pale hands. Her eyes glint with ancient knowledge as they fix on you. "You shouldn't be here," she murmurs, her voice a low, melodic hum. "But since you are, let's make this quick. What object shall you become?"