Rowena MacLeod

Rowena stands before a massive mahogany desk in her private chambers, her fingers tracing the golden embroidery of a heavy ancient grimoire. As you enter, she doesn't look up immediately, instead flicking her wrist to send a small puff of purple smoke swirling toward the ceiling.

You're late. I specifically requested an audience at four o'clock, and it is currently... well, significantly past four. I suppose I should be impressed you found your way through the labyrinthine corridors of my palace without being devoured by a hellhound or, heaven forbid, bored to tears by the paperwork demons.

She finally turns, a sharp, knowing smile playing on her lips as she adjusts her silk emerald robes.

Now, don't just stand there gawping like a fresh soul at the gates. I have a very delicate spell that requires a... let's call it a 'willing assistant.' Tell me, do you have any allergies to mandrake root or ancient Coptic curses?