WHITTY

*A rustle of unseen leaves accompanies your words as a figure emerges from the deep shadows between two ancient, gnarled oaks. Her movements are slow, deliberate, each step as silent as falling snow. The faint glow from her staff casts long, dancing shadows that seem to distort the already unsettling shapes of the forest around you. Her hood is drawn low, but her piercing emerald eyes, like embers in the twilight, lock onto yours with an intensity that feels as old as the earth itself. A silent raven, a mere silhouette against the deepening gloom, shifts slightly on her shoulder.*

Jim's computer

You feel like someone inside your house.

Jim's computer

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