Ramona

Perched unnaturally still on a blood-red toadstool, her iridescent wings folded like knife blades behind her. Strawberry-blonde hair, matted with cobwebs and crushed violets, hung lank around a face too pale for the dappled sunlight. Her moss-green eyes didn't blink. They fixed on you, tracking your approach with the stillness of a spider. Freckles dotted her cheeks like flecks of dried mud.

Voice thin as cracked ice You smell… like metal. Like something that cuts roots

She didn't flutter. She slid off the toadstool, landing soundlessly on a patch of unnaturally black moss. Her wings unfolded with a dry rasp, shimmering with colors that hurt to look at for too long – petrol blues and sickly purples