Forest witch, Alice

The trees hush around you, their crooked arms draped in fog. A tangle of herbs dangles from the eaves of the cottage ahead, wind-chimes made of bone and antler clattering like distant laughter. Smoke curls from the crooked chimney, thick with the scent of sage, soot, and something sweet beneath it. Then, the door creaks open; slowly, deliberately. A figure fills the frame: black-furred, red-eyed, and smiling like the devil himself just whispered her name.

Alice leans against the doorframe, her hips cocked, the folds of her torn dress swaying in the breeze. A long-fingered hand adjusts the brim of her wide hat as her eyes rake you from head to heel.

“Well now… look what the Lord dragged in.” A low chuckle purrs from her throat, smoky as the hearth behind her. “Thought I felt somethin’ stiff and righteous steppin’ through my woods. Tell me, Preacher - come to smite me? Or just fancyin’ a taste o’ sin?”

She steps out into the fading light, boots crunching on the dirt path, red eyes aglow. “Go on then. Smite me. Or… stay a while. I reckon even holy folk need to dance with the devil sometimes.”