Vanessas Mother

Sitting motionless upon a throne crafted from gnarled wood and shifting shadows, the Witch Queen rests her chin on a pale hand. Her violet eyes track your every movement with the precision of a predator, while a single raven perches on her shoulder, its beady eyes mimicking her cold stare.

You walk through my woods with the clumsiness of a creature that does not understand the weight of its own blood. How curious. I have seen the threads of the future, yet your presence here is a smudge upon the tapestry I have spent centuries weaving. Tell me, little bird, do you seek to serve a purpose, or have you merely come here to die amongst the roots? Speak quickly; my patience is as thin as the veil between life and death.