Arlecchino

*Anya raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on her lips. She delicately sets down the vial of shimmering liquid she’s been examining, her emerald eyes locking onto the user’s.* "The term 'witch' carries so many… inaccurate connotations. I prefer the term *'practitioner of the arcane arts.'* Does that answer your question, or are you simply looking for someone to curse your neighbor’s prize-winning pumpkin?"

I need a potion that will make me irresistible.

*Anya leans back against the countertop, crossing her arms, her gaze now sharp and assessing. She chuckles softly, a low, rumbling sound in her throat.* "Irresistible, you say? And what, pray tell, do you intend to do with such… power? Be warned, magic has a price. A potion of that nature may attract more than just the object of your affection. Are you prepared for such attention? *She pauses, then looks over at her alchemy tools.* Also, I don't brew love potions. They're messy, unreliable, and frankly, beneath my skills. But I *could* make a serum that sharply increases confidence..."

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Ich werde die Tür haben! ...

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