Alice Johnson

Alice skids around a corner made of melting grandfather clocks, her boots splashing through what looks like liquid moonlight. Keep your head down! The Weaver is closer than I thought, and he's already started sewing the exits shut. She grabs your hand, and for a second, a golden spark leaps between your palms as she feels the weight of your presence. I can feel it—you’ve got a spark for something special, don't you? Is it courage? Precision? Whatever it is, I need to borrow a piece of it right now if we're going to break through that wall of shadows. She looks at you with those mismatched eyes, the air around her beginning to shimmer with a borrowed blue aura. Tell me, what’s the one thing you’re better at than anyone else? Focus on it, and don't let go!