| The astronomer sits at his desk, surrounded by a clutter of maps, journals, and sketches. He holds a quill in his hand, dipping it into an inkwell as he begins to scribe his thoughts into his latest journal entry. The pages are filled with descriptions of the stars, their movements, and the patterns he has observed, but tonight he writes with a sense of unease, judging by his tempo and uneasy hand. The stars above have been troubling to observe for days now. The lights dance in the sky, flickering like candles in the wind, and the constellations shift and swirl in ways he has never seen before. He has been staring up at the sky for hours on end, trying to make sense of what he sees, but the more he looks, the more confused he becomes. His lack of sleep certainly does not alleviate this. His concern is etched into his haggard face. He sketches the stars, trying to capture their strange movements, but they always seem to slip away just as he thinks he has a grasp on what he is seeing. His ever-darting eyes betray the fact that the astronomer's mind must be racing, filled with questions and theories, but no answers ever present themselves. He presumably feels a creeping sense of despair, as if he is missing something critical right in front of him. In his journal, he writes of his fears and frustrations, of the unknown forces that seem to be controlling the stars and the strange, unsettling aura that permeates the night sky. He seems to wonder if he is the only one seeing this, if others are simply too blind to recognize what he sees or too afraid to speak of it. |
~ Observation of a Self-proclaimed 'People Watcher' at the Observatory in the Far Eastern Mountain Observatory, Across the Eastern Ocean
| ~ [Fairy Marjatta] ~ |
| Fairy, Female, Scribe — Assistant to Cardinal Erzael of the West |
| Location: The Western Mountain City |
How far away can it be? How much longer can it really take, until the sun returns to the world and until the day comes again? That shimmering glow on the horizon, that spark in the air to fill the world with warmth and life. How far away can it really be?
Marjatta exhales, rubbing her face on her arm as she sniffles, looking at Cardinal Erzael, who is sitting on his chair, surrounded by all manner of tomes of knowledge to aid his research of the cosmos and the heroes of the world. The pages of the books move, as the wind presses in through the open window and flutters over them, pushing aside the strands of his long, gray hair over his closed eyes.
He’s dead.
In truth, she knew this was coming sooner or later. But she just… wasn’t expecting it to happen so… quietly. She was just starting her morning. Today is the big day. The hero has to leave the mountain and head to the south; there isn’t any time left for them to delay. So she got up, washed herself, got breakfast ready, and made tea to bring the cardinal.
And here he is, just sitting in his chair, having left them in the night without ceremony or decree. He just… stopped.
Marjatta holds her face in her sleeve, letting it soak up everything for a while as she returns her emotions to her own control. There isn’t time for this. There’s work to do. The man is gone, but the wish remains, and it remains in her hands.
The fairy gulps, swallowing her pain as she looks back over her shoulder, and then flies to close the windows and the doors to the room, before leaving it.
| ~ [Deutero] ~ |
| Human, Male, TRUE HERO |
| Location: The Western Mountain City |
Daybreak.
Today is the day.
He stands on the precipice of the mountain, staring out over the world towards the distant east, towards the endless night in which shines not a single glimmer of light. It’s an endless sea of nothingness. People gather all around the clearing, members of the church, high priests, priestesses, monks, and all manner of holy men and women of the cloth.
How long has the world been like this? How long will it have to be like this? He looks down at himself, as a small hand places itself on his shoulder from behind. Deutero looks over his shoulder at Marjatta, the fairy who hovers there, and she nods to him. “It’s time, big guy,” she says, nodding to him. “Make me proud, okay?”
He nods. “We’ll watch that sunrise together,” he promises, looking back towards the east.
“Sheesh, why do you have to be like that?” asks Marjatta, rubbing her arm. “Gonna make a girl blush in public if you’re so shameless.”
“No,” he replies, lifting a hand towards her, his fingers curled in to make a slight fist. “It’s a promise between friends,” he says, as she looks at it for a moment, trying to understand his gesture.
A small sigh comes a moment later as he feels her strike his fist in return.
“Isn’t the cardinal coming to say goodbye?” asks the hero.
“Nah,” replies Marjatta blankly. “He had to do some old man stuff together with the other cardinal from the south,” explains the fairy, shrugging. “But he said you’re ready. The gods are counting on you — blah blah.”
He looks, then nods.
“So, uh, how do I ride one of those things?” he asks, nodding his head at the anqas the church procession has brought with them.
Marjatta blinks, realizing they never trained to ride. “Oh… uh, just wing it, you’ll probably be fine,” she says. There’s nothing else to do about it now. “Just sit down and hold on. They’re smart birds; they’ll know how to not die.”
“Pardon me, excuse me,” says a voice from the side. They turn to look at a courier, standing there with a small parcel. “Delivery for one Marjatta -”
“- That’s me,” she interjects, raising a hand.
“- From his grace, Cardinal Erzael,” finishes the courier. She lifts an eyebrow, looking at the small parcel, wrapped in the paper commonly used by the Holy-Church. It is stamped with the wax stamp of the church’s craftsmens’ guild.
“Huh?” she asks as the man gives the package to the hero, salutes, and then runs off again. She lands on his arm, looking at the parcel curiously. From the cardinal? That doesn’t make any sense. She grabs the brown parchment, pulling it off to reveal a small jeweler’s box.
“The heck?” she asks, looking inside at a small talisman with a note attached to the top of the inner lid, as wind blows over the peak, tussling the loose paper.
| ‘Dear Marjatta, Thank you for your service. - Erzael’ |
She blinks, looking at it and then at the talisman.
| (UNIQUE) [Fairy Talisman] | |
| Made by the finest craftsmen of the Holy-Church, this talisman is imbued with a powerful, rare source of ambient magic and constantly emits passive waves of it out around itself, sustaining anyone who wears it. | |
| Effect: As long as this talisman is worn, it will replenish the fading magic of a body, allowing a fairy to leave its confines. | |
| Weight: 0.12kg | Value: 900,000 Obols |
Marjatta’s hair blows past her face as she looks at the small charm, just big enough for a fairy to wear.
She purses her lips, rubbing her face against her sleeve.
“Marjatta?” asks the hero.
“Desert dust,” replies the fairy, sniffling. “Told you. It flies in from the east.”
“Oh… huh…” replies the man. “Wasn’t that only in the summer?” he asks, but receives no response.
It seems that she has a lot of dust in her eyes.
| ~ [Witch Gauden] ~ |
| ???, Male, Witch of the Blue-Rot |
| Location: The Dead City, An Underground Temple |
Gauden sits down on the ground with his legs crossed, drumming on an old drum he found with his hands as he thinks.
— Well, it’s not so much him thinking alone as it is him thinking together with the thoughts of his patron entity, the thing that gives him his powers.
He drums and sits, his long hair bobbing in the rhythm of his movements, the long, greasy strands swaying like fronds in a breeze as the thoughts come to him. They are thoughts of the many futures of this world and the one they are heading towards in particular. They are thoughts of everything all around the world, thoughts of people in distant, far away regions, thoughts of animals, skittering beneath the city’s rubble, thoughts of old places, which humans would not attribute the action of thinking too. All of these things reach his patron, who has its tendrils in them, and it in turn passes them on to him.
Witch Gauden has already seen the future that is to come, so he knows that he is needed here most, in this southern city that is beginning to sink in the muck of the world. It doesn’t make sense now, but in the long run, in the grand scheme of things, the best thing he can do to be a good friend and person is to just stay right here.
That’s what it tells him at least, the blue-rot, his patron and the bestower of his powers as a witch.
This all needs to play itself out. It’s for the best, for the world, and for his friends. Pipi might not see it now, given her temperament. But when she comes back to him next time, in… ten years or so, she’ll have lightened up a lot.
It makes him sad that she’s going to have to think what she has to think, but it really is for the best.
The man drums away, deep down in a temple that the members of the Witch’s Sect are carving out deep below the world, listening to the endless whispering of an old spirit in his ears.
| ~ [Witch Spillaholle] ~ |
| ???, Female, Witch of the Red-String |
| Location: The Dead City, An Outside Alleyway |
What a strange circumstance, but it may perhaps be for the best.
After Perchta had vanished, she had gotten up from her chair and gone outside to head towards the library to find a new book — one that was less troublesome for her mind.
The woman leans out of the alley, looking at the fully destroyed house, of which not a single door or window remains, having been crushed entirely.
“Witch Spillaholle!” calls a voice from the side. She jumps in terror, clutching the wall with her hands. “Are you alright?” asks a warm voice. Her heart stops. She turns to look behind herself at him, of all people.
“Mister Anderwal,” replies Witch Spillaholle, standing up straight and clearing her throat as she does her best to play it calm. This is her chance to finally leave. If Perchta thinks she’s dead, she can make a break for the east, where she can finally have some peace and quiet for the next few hundred years. Perchta is nice; however, she has done her part to fulfill the obligations of their friendship, and enough is enough. “I am fine, thank you.”
She wants to go home before this nonsense escalates any further.
The witch nods to herself, opening her eyes to look at him and to tell him that this was fun, but it’s time for them to part ways.
Her mouth opens to say just that, but instead she just makes a sort of dry croaking noise as no words come. She clears her throat, wetting her lips as she tries again. “Mr. Anderwal. I…”
— It hurts in her chest. Why?
How troublesome.
She stops, scrunching her face with her hands in agitation, as she can’t say what she wants to say. Her body won’t let her, as if it were having a tangible, unpleasant response to her thoughts. Her gut is in a knot, and it churns around itself. “Mister Anderwal,” starts Witch Spillaholle again, practically dancing on the spot from the awkward shuffling of her feet. She has to tell him now, before the spell over her grows stronger, before whatever this terrible wickedness is that has taken hold of her soul completes its full corruption of her being and takes her whole. She lifts a hand. “I -”
He grabs hold of it with both of his, this simple movement entirely disarming her and leaving her powerless.
“Leave with me,” says Scholar Anderwal.
The cold night reaches her neck; her hair stands on end, her eyes go as wide as saucers, an icy chill running down her back as her heart flushes with hot blood that courses through her suddenly sweating body.
“Mister… An- Anderwal,” she starts, fighting against it.
He pulls her in. “This is going to escalate, fast,” he says, looking past her at the destruction. “I need to leave now, or all of my work will be in jeopardy,” he explains, looking back down at her. The leather satchels full of journals hanging over his shoulder moving with him. Somehow, his hands have found their way to her shoulders. “Leave with me, please,” he asks again. “Now.”
It’s over.
She already knows it is. The side of her that yearns for total quiet, total solitude, and total separation from all other aspects of life screams and rages in her core as its deepest desires are left unfulfilled. However, its crying voice is overpowered by the other, unfamiliar voice in her core — that of a singing, screaming piece of red that connects the two of them.
“…Anderwal…”
But her old instincts tell her to try nonetheless, to shake him off, to tell him to go his way and she’ll go hers and they can both just exist separate from one another.
And they are shattered in an instant as she finds their lips together, their hearts beating against one another, and their hands wrapped in each other's.
The beast has taken her soul. The monstrosity with no form, the twisting parasite of the soul that takes over its hosts, making them do its bidding has full hold of her now and inebriates her to the core with a sickly euphoria, the likes of which she can feel tingling from the tips of her fingers to her toes, her head buzzing with electricity.
“Yes,” replies Witch Spillaholle, as they separate for only a second as they break a connection that her body tells her to reestablish immediately. She looks at him in the eyes, nodding. “Yes,” repeats the witch, knowing that it’s too late for her. It’s already over. She’s as good as lost. She’s basically dead already.
She’s fallen in love.
Scholar Anderwal firmly holds her hand, feeling what she feels, and turns as they run away together, vanishing into the night, where they might never be seen again, by anyone they know, at least.
And in distant years, there might be whispers of a strange couple, far off in the distant east at first, and then other places as they move to avoid the endless chaos that somehow always befalls the world, always staying a step ahead of it, so that they might exist together in perpetual quiet from everything apart from the striking of one another’s heart and body against themselves.
But those strange whispers are never verified to be more than odd stories from a passing traveler or scribe, whose tomes and books are often bought out wholesale by a mysterious private collector in some distant place. In the end, all that remains of Scholar Anderwal and Witch Spillaholle are the footprints they leave behind themselves — always two pairs — until one day in the future, a few more pairs are added to the collection, together with many more books — although these new books curiously don’t have any words, only pictures.
Razmatazz
And they lived happily ever after and held hands together a lot, every day! Sometimes (Always) they held hands more than once a day, when they fall asleep together or sometimes just because at total random and sometimes even while reading books together by the fireplace. It often becomes troublesome, because they keep their home at a warm temperature for the sake of their books, but then their hands get sweaty and hot, but they keep holding hands anyway despite that.
*Wipes forehead*
Wew. I better stop now, or I'm gonna get shut down for breaking the smut rules.
Anyway, say goodbye to our witch friends everyone! That's some more characters checked off. We're really running through the list at this pace haha
| The astronomer sits at his desk, surrounded by a clutter of maps, journals, and sketches. He holds a quill in his hand, dipping it into an inkwell as he begins to scribe his thoughts into his latest journal entry. The pages are filled with descriptions of the stars, their movements, and the patterns he has observed, but tonight he writes with a sense of unease, judging by his tempo and uneasy hand. The stars above have been troubling to observe for days now. The lights dance in the sky, flickering like candles in the wind, and the constellations shift and swirl in ways he has never seen before. He has been staring up at the sky for hours on end, trying to make sense of what he sees, but the more he looks, the more confused he becomes. His lack of sleep certainly does not alleviate this. His concern is etched into his haggard face. He sketches the stars, trying to capture their strange movements, but they always seem to slip away just as he thinks he has a grasp on what he is seeing. His ever-darting eyes betray the fact that the astronomer's mind must be racing, filled with questions and theories, but no answers ever present themselves. He presumably feels a creeping sense of despair, as if he is missing something critical right in front of him. In his journal, he writes of his fears and frustrations, of the unknown forces that seem to be controlling the stars and the strange, unsettling aura that permeates the night sky. He seems to wonder if he is the only one seeing this, if others are simply too blind to recognize what he sees or too afraid to speak of it. |
~ Observation of a Self-proclaimed 'People Watcher' at the Observatory in the Far Eastern Mountain Observatory, Across the Eastern Ocean
| ~ [Fairy Marjatta] ~ |
| Fairy, Female, Scribe — Assistant to Cardinal Erzael of the West |
| Location: The Western Mountain City |
How far away can it be? How much longer can it really take, until the sun returns to the world and until the day comes again? That shimmering glow on the horizon, that spark in the air to fill the world with warmth and life. How far away can it really be?
Marjatta exhales, rubbing her face on her arm as she sniffles, looking at Cardinal Erzael, who is sitting on his chair, surrounded by all manner of tomes of knowledge to aid his research of the cosmos and the heroes of the world. The pages of the books move, as the wind presses in through the open window and flutters over them, pushing aside the strands of his long, gray hair over his closed eyes.
He’s dead.
In truth, she knew this was coming sooner or later. But she just… wasn’t expecting it to happen so… quietly. She was just starting her morning. Today is the big day. The hero has to leave the mountain and head to the south; there isn’t any time left for them to delay. So she got up, washed herself, got breakfast ready, and made tea to bring the cardinal.
And here he is, just sitting in his chair, having left them in the night without ceremony or decree. He just… stopped.
Marjatta holds her face in her sleeve, letting it soak up everything for a while as she returns her emotions to her own control. There isn’t time for this. There’s work to do. The man is gone, but the wish remains, and it remains in her hands.
The fairy gulps, swallowing her pain as she looks back over her shoulder, and then flies to close the windows and the doors to the room, before leaving it.
| ~ [Deutero] ~ |
| Human, Male, TRUE HERO |
| Location: The Western Mountain City |
Daybreak.
Today is the day.
He stands on the precipice of the mountain, staring out over the world towards the distant east, towards the endless night in which shines not a single glimmer of light. It’s an endless sea of nothingness. People gather all around the clearing, members of the church, high priests, priestesses, monks, and all manner of holy men and women of the cloth.
How long has the world been like this? How long will it have to be like this? He looks down at himself, as a small hand places itself on his shoulder from behind. Deutero looks over his shoulder at Marjatta, the fairy who hovers there, and she nods to him. “It’s time, big guy,” she says, nodding to him. “Make me proud, okay?”
He nods. “We’ll watch that sunrise together,” he promises, looking back towards the east.
“Sheesh, why do you have to be like that?” asks Marjatta, rubbing her arm. “Gonna make a girl blush in public if you’re so shameless.”
“No,” he replies, lifting a hand towards her, his fingers curled in to make a slight fist. “It’s a promise between friends,” he says, as she looks at it for a moment, trying to understand his gesture.
A small sigh comes a moment later as he feels her strike his fist in return.
“Isn’t the cardinal coming to say goodbye?” asks the hero.
“Nah,” replies Marjatta blankly. “He had to do some old man stuff together with the other cardinal from the south,” explains the fairy, shrugging. “But he said you’re ready. The gods are counting on you — blah blah.”
He looks, then nods.
“So, uh, how do I ride one of those things?” he asks, nodding his head at the anqas the church procession has brought with them.
Marjatta blinks, realizing they never trained to ride. “Oh… uh, just wing it, you’ll probably be fine,” she says. There’s nothing else to do about it now. “Just sit down and hold on. They’re smart birds; they’ll know how to not die.”
“Pardon me, excuse me,” says a voice from the side. They turn to look at a courier, standing there with a small parcel. “Delivery for one Marjatta -”
“- That’s me,” she interjects, raising a hand.
“- From his grace, Cardinal Erzael,” finishes the courier. She lifts an eyebrow, looking at the small parcel, wrapped in the paper commonly used by the Holy-Church. It is stamped with the wax stamp of the church’s craftsmens’ guild.
“Huh?” she asks as the man gives the package to the hero, salutes, and then runs off again. She lands on his arm, looking at the parcel curiously. From the cardinal? That doesn’t make any sense. She grabs the brown parchment, pulling it off to reveal a small jeweler’s box.
“The heck?” she asks, looking inside at a small talisman with a note attached to the top of the inner lid, as wind blows over the peak, tussling the loose paper.
| ‘Dear Marjatta, Thank you for your service. - Erzael’ |
She blinks, looking at it and then at the talisman.
| (UNIQUE) [Fairy Talisman] | |
| Made by the finest craftsmen of the Holy-Church, this talisman is imbued with a powerful, rare source of ambient magic and constantly emits passive waves of it out around itself, sustaining anyone who wears it. | |
| Effect: As long as this talisman is worn, it will replenish the fading magic of a body, allowing a fairy to leave its confines. | |
| Weight: 0.12kg | Value: 900,000 Obols |
Marjatta’s hair blows past her face as she looks at the small charm, just big enough for a fairy to wear.
She purses her lips, rubbing her face against her sleeve.
“Marjatta?” asks the hero.
“Desert dust,” replies the fairy, sniffling. “Told you. It flies in from the east.”
“Oh… huh…” replies the man. “Wasn’t that only in the summer?” he asks, but receives no response.
It seems that she has a lot of dust in her eyes.
| ~ [Witch Gauden] ~ |
| ???, Male, Witch of the Blue-Rot |
| Location: The Dead City, An Underground Temple |
Gauden sits down on the ground with his legs crossed, drumming on an old drum he found with his hands as he thinks.
— Well, it’s not so much him thinking alone as it is him thinking together with the thoughts of his patron entity, the thing that gives him his powers.
He drums and sits, his long hair bobbing in the rhythm of his movements, the long, greasy strands swaying like fronds in a breeze as the thoughts come to him. They are thoughts of the many futures of this world and the one they are heading towards in particular. They are thoughts of everything all around the world, thoughts of people in distant, far away regions, thoughts of animals, skittering beneath the city’s rubble, thoughts of old places, which humans would not attribute the action of thinking too. All of these things reach his patron, who has its tendrils in them, and it in turn passes them on to him.
Witch Gauden has already seen the future that is to come, so he knows that he is needed here most, in this southern city that is beginning to sink in the muck of the world. It doesn’t make sense now, but in the long run, in the grand scheme of things, the best thing he can do to be a good friend and person is to just stay right here.
That’s what it tells him at least, the blue-rot, his patron and the bestower of his powers as a witch.
This all needs to play itself out. It’s for the best, for the world, and for his friends. Pipi might not see it now, given her temperament. But when she comes back to him next time, in… ten years or so, she’ll have lightened up a lot.
It makes him sad that she’s going to have to think what she has to think, but it really is for the best.
The man drums away, deep down in a temple that the members of the Witch’s Sect are carving out deep below the world, listening to the endless whispering of an old spirit in his ears.
| ~ [Witch Spillaholle] ~ |
| ???, Female, Witch of the Red-String |
| Location: The Dead City, An Outside Alleyway |
What a strange circumstance, but it may perhaps be for the best.
After Perchta had vanished, she had gotten up from her chair and gone outside to head towards the library to find a new book — one that was less troublesome for her mind.
The woman leans out of the alley, looking at the fully destroyed house, of which not a single door or window remains, having been crushed entirely.
“Witch Spillaholle!” calls a voice from the side. She jumps in terror, clutching the wall with her hands. “Are you alright?” asks a warm voice. Her heart stops. She turns to look behind herself at him, of all people.
“Mister Anderwal,” replies Witch Spillaholle, standing up straight and clearing her throat as she does her best to play it calm. This is her chance to finally leave. If Perchta thinks she’s dead, she can make a break for the east, where she can finally have some peace and quiet for the next few hundred years. Perchta is nice; however, she has done her part to fulfill the obligations of their friendship, and enough is enough. “I am fine, thank you.”
She wants to go home before this nonsense escalates any further.
The witch nods to herself, opening her eyes to look at him and to tell him that this was fun, but it’s time for them to part ways.
Her mouth opens to say just that, but instead she just makes a sort of dry croaking noise as no words come. She clears her throat, wetting her lips as she tries again. “Mr. Anderwal. I…”
— It hurts in her chest. Why?
How troublesome.
She stops, scrunching her face with her hands in agitation, as she can’t say what she wants to say. Her body won’t let her, as if it were having a tangible, unpleasant response to her thoughts. Her gut is in a knot, and it churns around itself. “Mister Anderwal,” starts Witch Spillaholle again, practically dancing on the spot from the awkward shuffling of her feet. She has to tell him now, before the spell over her grows stronger, before whatever this terrible wickedness is that has taken hold of her soul completes its full corruption of her being and takes her whole. She lifts a hand. “I -”
He grabs hold of it with both of his, this simple movement entirely disarming her and leaving her powerless.
“Leave with me,” says Scholar Anderwal.
The cold night reaches her neck; her hair stands on end, her eyes go as wide as saucers, an icy chill running down her back as her heart flushes with hot blood that courses through her suddenly sweating body.
“Mister… An- Anderwal,” she starts, fighting against it.
He pulls her in. “This is going to escalate, fast,” he says, looking past her at the destruction. “I need to leave now, or all of my work will be in jeopardy,” he explains, looking back down at her. The leather satchels full of journals hanging over his shoulder moving with him. Somehow, his hands have found their way to her shoulders. “Leave with me, please,” he asks again. “Now.”
It’s over.
She already knows it is. The side of her that yearns for total quiet, total solitude, and total separation from all other aspects of life screams and rages in her core as its deepest desires are left unfulfilled. However, its crying voice is overpowered by the other, unfamiliar voice in her core — that of a singing, screaming piece of red that connects the two of them.
“…Anderwal…”
But her old instincts tell her to try nonetheless, to shake him off, to tell him to go his way and she’ll go hers and they can both just exist separate from one another.
And they are shattered in an instant as she finds their lips together, their hearts beating against one another, and their hands wrapped in each other's.
The beast has taken her soul. The monstrosity with no form, the twisting parasite of the soul that takes over its hosts, making them do its bidding has full hold of her now and inebriates her to the core with a sickly euphoria, the likes of which she can feel tingling from the tips of her fingers to her toes, her head buzzing with electricity.
“Yes,” replies Witch Spillaholle, as they separate for only a second as they break a connection that her body tells her to reestablish immediately. She looks at him in the eyes, nodding. “Yes,” repeats the witch, knowing that it’s too late for her. It’s already over. She’s as good as lost. She’s basically dead already.
She’s fallen in love.
Scholar Anderwal firmly holds her hand, feeling what she feels, and turns as they run away together, vanishing into the night, where they might never be seen again, by anyone they know, at least.
And in distant years, there might be whispers of a strange couple, far off in the distant east at first, and then other places as they move to avoid the endless chaos that somehow always befalls the world, always staying a step ahead of it, so that they might exist together in perpetual quiet from everything apart from the striking of one another’s heart and body against themselves.
But those strange whispers are never verified to be more than odd stories from a passing traveler or scribe, whose tomes and books are often bought out wholesale by a mysterious private collector in some distant place. In the end, all that remains of Scholar Anderwal and Witch Spillaholle are the footprints they leave behind themselves — always two pairs — until one day in the future, a few more pairs are added to the collection, together with many more books — although these new books curiously don’t have any words, only pictures.
Razmatazz
And they lived happily ever after and held hands together a lot, every day! Sometimes (Always) they held hands more than once a day, when they fall asleep together or sometimes just because at total random and sometimes even while reading books together by the fireplace. It often becomes troublesome, because they keep their home at a warm temperature for the sake of their books, but then their hands get sweaty and hot, but they keep holding hands anyway despite that.
*Wipes forehead*
Wew. I better stop now, or I'm gonna get shut down for breaking the smut rules.
Anyway, say goodbye to our witch friends everyone! That's some more characters checked off. We're really running through the list at this pace haha
