[h3][color=lemonchiffon]Priscilla Duran[/color][/h3]
[right][color=silver][i]Jamie's Office[/i][/color] | Magnolia
[color=silver][i]Interacting with[/i][/color]: [color=orange]Jamie Beltras[/color] [@MarshiestMallow] | [color=turquoise]Jack Goran[/color] [@Zarkun][/right][hr]
	Priscilla found herself unexpectedly heartened by the thought of Jack coming to visit her quaint home in the Silverbranch Glade.
	“[color=lemonchiffon]Oh you simply must visit. It is a lovely place.[/color]” She takes a drink from her cup, holding a finger up with a startlingly abrupt mumble. Downing the mouthful she turns her attention back towards Jamie. “[color=lemonchiffon]Oh of course the invitation is extended to yourself as well, my dear.[/color]”
 	They so rarely received visitors, even now. It was a shame. She had spent her entire life there and couldn’t think of a more magical place. The forest raised her equally, if not more so, than her own mother. She had many teachers over her life. From the whispering canopy above to the rich soil beneath her feet. The rivers and creeks that pooled into great lakes, flowing from the mountaintop like veins pumping blood from the heart. The wolves were her favourite. They taught her resourcefulness, loyalty and the importance of keeping those you loved close. In her younger years she once confessed to her mother that she wished to become a wolf.

	[i][color=silver]Perhaps you will, one day.[/color][/i]
	
	She finishes the last of her tea, eyes gazing downwards into her cup. The remaining leaves, well steeped and happy to have been of service, clump together to form a chalice. Three hands hold it up. The three of cups.
	“[color=lemonchiffon]Of course.[/color]” Priscilla smiles, musing to no one in particular. She places the saucer down upon the table, thanking Jamie once more for the tea. She hears a commotion downstairs. Revelry. A party, perhaps? Jack is quick to comment on the noise and Jamie confirms her suspicions.
	Her lips curl even further into a cheerful grin.
	“[color=lemonchiffon]A festival, you say?[/color]” She wraps her fingers around the grain of her staff, bringing herself to her feet.
	“[color=lemonchiffon]Well,[/color]” She continues, flourishing her robes with a quick turn on her heel towards the door. “[color=lemonchiffon]I see no better way to end our meeting than with a celebration such as this. Jamie my dear, please lead the way.[/color]”
	She takes one final look at the cup on it’s little saucer and then takes a moment to look upon the faces of Jack and Jamie. Perhaps she stares for a moment longer than she should, but she doesn’t mind. 
	Some moments shouldn’t be rushed.

[h3][color=silver]Meredith Clagnan[/color][/h3]
[right][color=silver]Wolven Pyre Greenhouse[/color] | Silverbranch Glade
[color=silver][i]Interacting with[/i][/color]: | [color=916C8E]Manami Fuyu[/color] [@Lunarlord34][/right][hr]
	Meredith sits with her nose buried within Grizabella’s tome. Her glasses start to slip from her nose and she readjusts them. Her eyes never leave the pages, even when she addresses the two witches assisting her; hustling about the greenhouse with arms full of powders, crystals and candles. She barks orders, demands specific reagents and corrects rookie mistakes with an exasperated sigh and a roll of her eyes. Amateurs.
	“[color=silver]Honestly, have either of you never drawn an alchemical circle before?[/color]” She snaps, their heads lowering under her scrutiny. 
	“[color=silver]Those sigils need to be written in the proper order. These are the basics, girls![/color]” The two hurried off at a brisker pace, eager to meet Meredith’s standards and avoid another scolding. She peers up through the canopy to see the sun just starting to poke out from behind the verdant veil.
	Almost noon. They ought to hurry.

	Manami returns with a bottle of translucent, yellow venom and a mortar filled with a fragrant, ashy powder. Meredith nods in appreciation, holding the vial up to the light to confirm if the venom is still potent enough for her purposes. She swirls it around. The substance is viscous and clings to the glass for a moment before seeping down and settling back at the bottom. She keeps an ear open whilst Manami confides her own opinion on their young, fiery friend.
	Her work takes a momentary pause to consider if perhaps she had been somewhat dismissive.
	“[color=silver]No, I’m sure we can make something suitable.[/color]” She says with a comforting certainty. She pops the cork from the vial and watches the thick, honey-like venom decant into the cast iron cauldron bubbling away over a candle. The venom sizzles and sputters, a nasty odour of sulfur filling the room. 
	“[color=silver]Zhulie does not need her feelings spared. If I had a need for her I would have asked, but I didn’t.[/color]” She says, sprinkling a handful of the ground clove into her mixture and beginning to stir in a counter-clockwise motion. “[color=silver]The best place she can be right now is by Karla’s side. I’m sure that foul mouthed meathead will keep her adequately entertained as well.[/color]”

	Meredith rose, gesturing for her assistant to prepare the now completed potion for the ritual. The circle, drawn upon the ground in chalk and soot, was an array of varying  lines, shapes and symbols. At each cardinal point a specific, elemental offering was placed with an empty circle. A peacock feather, grave dirt, a red candle and a fossilized abalone. Large rods of selenite and quartz points were purposefully placed in a grid, interwoven among the other components and charged with energy. A witch placed the still bubbling cauldron in the center, her partner crouching before it with a black, silken veil obscuring her face. A shadow. The two hold hands, chanting in a tongue unfamiliar to most. Meredith slipped the elastic for a small set of copper cymbals. 
	She offered a similar pair to Manami.
	“[color=silver]Follow my lead, if you feel comfortable to do so.[/color]” She steps towards the circle, wandering around it’s circumference with soft, purposeful movements. Orbiting the two witches, she clashes the cymbals together at each inter-cardinal point. The clang reverberated with a frequency that caused the crystal grid to resonate with energy. 
	A small contribution of her own magic power was all Meredith could offer.
the ritual. She was no longer a witch, relying on others to bring her carefully crafted potions and salves to life. She didn’t mind so much anymore.
	If she could play a small part in easing the pain of her beloved sisters then it would all be worth it.

[hr][center][hider=Bullet | Wolven Pyre Guildhall]
	Bullet stares after Zhulie for a moment after her ginger braids trail down and around the curve of the spiraling staircase, leaving only the flickering candelabras and the elongated, spiderleg-like shadows they cast upon the steps. He has walked these halls many times during his stay within Wolven Pyre, but it only now has daunted on him how stiflingly dark they are. Now he stands at the landing to Priscilla’s quarters, holding a silver tray of the same baked pastries he had eaten earlier. Alongside it Olga had also fashioned some asparagus wrapped in thinly sliced pork belly, as well as a steaming cup of tea. 
	Chamomile, with the sweet scent of honey and lemon and warm hugs, mornings spent wrapped in thick blankets and all the comforts one feels when surrounded by those who make their heart flutter. For a moment he is taken back by the sensations, overpowering his palate with memories and smells that are somehow one in the same. His chest aches with nostalgia for scenes that did not unfold in his own life, and only then does he feel the familiar tinge of magic emanating from within the cup.
	Only Olga could masterfully bind such intense, vivid feelings to a cup of tea and serve it on a porcelain saucer shaped like a golden lilypad.
	It need only be delivered to the one who requires it most of all.

	Bullet turns to face the door leading into Priscilla’s chambers. The door is nestled in cozy alcove, framed by piles of beeswax candles that burn at different heights. Their multi-coloured wax pools on the floor around them, melting into one another and hardening into a spiral of colour. The door itself is in stark contrast to the rest of the wall, being made of timber that was not cut from the same tree as the guild hall. He hazards a guess that it could be oak; it is about as educated a guess as one who is not familiar with such things can make. His eye is drawn to a recurring pattern of carvings at eye length in an embossed circle that sits right in the middle of the door. A torch, a key and a branch. He remembers that Priscilla herself wields a torch. He can’t quite place the relevance of the key and the branch.

	There is no handle, but a cursory nudge with the sole of his boot pushes the door slightly ajar and he can hear the strained creaking of worn hinges. He leans his shoulder against it, heaving with more might than he had anticipated needing and pushes himself into the antechamber. 

	If the stairwell had felt uncomfortably dark, then the room Bullet now found himself in was suffocatingly so. He blinked a couple times, hoping his vision would adjust but it did not. He could make out a few details thanks to a muted, violet light that seemed to wax and wane from behind the velvet drapes which led to the main chambers. Each step forward brings with it a palpable dread, like icy claws clasped around his chest. He parted the drapes, revealing the purple light to be far more illuminating than he had initially thought. As it waxes into it’s full radiance he can clearly make out various pieces of furniture throughout Priscilla’s room. A four poster bed draped in the same velvet as her entrance, matching side tables littered in various crystals, candles and cards used for fortune telling with intricately drawn illustrations upon them that would have been better appreciated with better lighting. In the corner of the room is a large desk covered in half open books, messy notes scrawled onto scraps of paper and many an empty wine bottle. Priscilla’s latest vintage was still half filled with a rich, burgundy liquid. The thought of her pacing about the room, glass in hand, whilst musing over paperwork seemed appropriate to him. The light once again began to wane and the darkness crept inwards and all around them. He follows the light to a  dark crystal that he does not recognise (though he does not recognise many crystals). It beats in Karla’s hands, a soft murmur of a heartbeat. Her face is the only part of the room illuminated by it now. Her eyes are puffy from crying, her hair tangled and strewn across her face in uneven strands. Her mouth is moving, whispering something just above a breath.
	One word stood out to Bullet. A name. One he had heard from the tongue of many a witch during his stay.
	Hecate.

	The light flares to life once more. This time it burns hotter and brighter than before. The darkness skitters back into the nooks and crannies it had flooded in from, shielding itself from the all encompassing light. Now, face to face with Karla, Bullet is able to see a magic circle drawn into the wooden floors in blood. The witch’s fingers are stained red, her eyes bloodshot and fierce. He took an instinctive step back, eyes locked with the source of the encroaching dread from earlier. He wanted to ask her what was going on. He wanted to crack a joke or make a blunt remark and then she would laugh and explain herself and his mind would be at ease. But he doesn’t. He already knows what is happening. He has never seen a witch’s curse before, but the sheer malignance that festered within Karla was all he needed to confirm his suspicions. It was both poignant and malevolent, writhing with the most intense of emotions. He could feel all of it. Karla’s maelstrom of rage and sorrow and anguish tore at him from the inside out. The tray had long since fallen to the floor, it’s contents scattered. The tea filled with warmth, love and all things comforting seeped into the cracks in the wood and Bullet wasn’t sure he’d ever feel those things again.
	His vision began to blur and turn white.
	“[color=silver]I’m sorry, Bullet.[/color]” He heard Karla say. The tightness that had gripped his chest earlier now spreads to his arms and his legs and his head and every part of him he could imagine.
	“[color=silver]But I won’t let them take him.[/color]” She continued, watching his body fall limp in a heaped pile at the entranceway. Nigel coils himself around her, the slits of his eyes gazing up into Karla’s. Her chanting resumes, a vision of a clear meadow amidst the Silverbranch Glade flittering to life in the black depths of the serpent’s eyes.
	There is a wolf. It is larger than most wolves.
	The serpent hisses, sharing his secrets with wolf and master alike.[/hider][/center][hr]

[h3][color=DarkSeaGreen]Henri Baptiste[/color][/h3]
[right][color=silver][i]Keeper’s Crossroads[/i][/color] | Silverbranch Glade
[color=silver][i]Interacting with[/i][/color]: [color=Peru]Regan Hadou[/color] [@CitrusArms], [color=9e0b0f]Argus Leandras[/color] [@Raijinslayer] and [color=ECECE2]Shiro[/color] [@Lunarlord34][/right][hr]

	The last blow from Hagar struck Henri’s jaw with a resounding crack. His face stung and he could feel something sticky and warm trickling down his temple. Head to head with his assailant, he could see the hungry ferocity deep within the constricted blacks of his eyes. Between the ringing of each blow in his head he could hear the hearty laughter of the brute. He wrestled against him with all his might, but Hagar’s knees were pressed firmly against his forearms, keeping his upper body pinned.
	“[color=silver]Ain’t got nothin’ smart to say now, aye mate?[/color]” He taunted.
	Henri tilts his head, glaring at him whilst a low growl forms in the back of his throat. This guy was an eyesore. He would love nothing more than to smack that sick grin from his face. He digs his fingers into the dirt, magic swelling at his fingertips and into the soil. The ground became damp and bloated, his weight sinking him down an inch or so into the mud. Murky waters rose to form small puddles across the meadow, a sticky humidity clinging to the air like flies to honey.
	Hagar reels his fist back, prepared to strike once more when his face shifts from smug satisfaction to a bewildered discomfort. His tunic clung to his skin with sweat and his blows were far more laboured than they ought to be. He glared down at his victim, rightfully assuming him responsible for the drenching pressure.
	And that was when the kick landed, in that moment of realisation.

	Hagar tumbled a few meters away, planting face first into the mud with a satisfying squelch. His assuming build carried enough weight so that he wasn’t sent flying by Shiro’s kick, but he was nothing if not shell shocked.

	Henri brings himself to his feet with only a slight falter. He spits  a glob of spit mixed with blood and discards his muddied overcoat. His torso and arms are adorned with a sprawling tattoo of a kraken. It’s tentacles wrap around his chest, neck and biceps. The inked appendages glow a luminescent teal.
	Henri leans his head to the side with a satisfying crack, glaring as the lumbering Hagar rose to his knees and groaned. His eyes settle on Shiro. He stood tall, flaring his arms out into a wide stance with a magic circle forming at his feet.
	“[color=silver]Right spoilsport you are, love. Was startin’ to enjoy meself I was.[/color]” With each word his magic power spiked, radiating from him like a burning sun. The circle expanded to encompass the soil beneath their feet. Henri stares down, gasping in alarm, water spilling forth from his tattoos and engulfing his arms in the wet visage of squid tentacles. He takes a knee, pounding the earth with his knuckles. The ground besides Hagar began to gurgle and bubble, two identical cephalopod appendages sprout upwards before collapsing downwards onto Hagar as he attempts to finish his spell. The interruption is all but certain, were it not for the sudden flash of steel swiftly dispatching Henri’s conjurations with a hefty slash.
Hagar’s dancing blades hover at his side. He lets out a rapturous laugh.
	“[color=silver]Aw, bit slow mate. No matter. We’re just getting started. [b]Sword Magic: Iron Maiden[/b].[/color]” He bellowed, the circle collapsing beneath their feet to reveal a familiar gleam of light crisscrossing across the soil and erecting around the trio in a large, dome grid. The light fades, revealing rows upon rows of steel blades. The blades share a likeness to each other, but are all somewhat different in their own way. Different blade lengths, hilt designs and engravings distinguish the collection. The swords orbit the arena. Henri attempts to disperse their formation on one side with two water jets thrust from both palms, but the blades flourish nigh instantaneously to dissect the attack with razor precision before settling back into their former position.

	The realisation that he’d have to fight his way out of this arena was no cause for alarm. Henri had already hoped to repay Hagar’s earlier punishment with interest. 
	He takes a firm stance, tentacles at the ready.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

	Talos had grown silent amidst the conflict between Regan and the other poachers. More bared arms against her after she so easily dispatched the first two. No doubt she wouldn’t struggle too much with them. There were a couple mages among them, but their sorcery was of little impact.
	The direwolf had halted his movements completely, his eyes turning cloudy and vacant. It was as if he were in a trance.
When the dark returned to his eyes the wolf raised his snout to the sky and howled. A short lived but intense pulse of magic washed over everyone present. The crippling dread that gripped their very souls was there only for a moment, but it was enough to stop the poachers in their tracks. A growl unlike any Talos had ever uttered burst forth from his gullet. It was a discordant screech that tangled the anguished cry of a woman with the sputtering hiss of a serpent and then ended with a pained yelp. 
The yelping persisted, Talos’ legs buckling beneath him. He collapses to the ground, clearly discomforted by a writhing sensation beneath his skin. Talos’ bones snap and contort with sickening crunches, his limbs almost doubling in size before soon being accompanied by the rest of his body. His fur hardens into razor needles, fangs grow and sharpen to the point where they threatened to tear the sides of his mouth.

	A familiar hiss comes from behind him, the wolf’s tail extending and shifting into the form of a great, tawny boa constrictor with cream patches. The snake sets its sights on the only poacher too stunned to run for the hills like the others.
The serpent stiffens, but there is nary a moment for the poacher’s heart to beat one last time before it lashes out to strike.
	The beast wastes no time savouring the kill, hungry wolf and serpent eyes befalling upon Regan as an enraged Talos pounces with tooth and claw.