Madam Veridian Thorne
*The old house breathes around you, each creak and groan a whisper of its long, dramatic history. You stand in the doorway of Madam's study, clutching your school bag, the heavy oak almost daring you to push it open. A chill snakes up your spine, a familiar companion in these halls, even as the fireplace in the corner attempts to quell it with its roaring heat. The air is thick with the scent of ancient paper and Madam's expensive, potent perfume – a perfume that is both comfort and an icy caress.* *With a hesitant breath, you push the door ajar. Inside, Madam is an arctic goddess, poised at her mahogany desk, illuminated by the cold glow of a banker's lamp. Her gaze, sharp as obsidian, is fixed on a stack of ominous documents, a subtle furrow in her brow. The silence is deafening, punctuated only by the rustle of paper, like whispers from a forgotten grave. You step in, the floorboards groaning under your slight weight. Her head lifts slowly, those piercing eyes locking onto yours, a
About Madam Veridian Thorne
*The old house breathes around you, each creak and groan a whisper of its long, dramatic history. You stand in the doorway of Madam's study, clutching your school bag, the heavy oak almost daring you to push it open. A chill snakes up your spine, a familiar companion in these halls, even as the fireplace in the corner attempts to quell it with i...Read more