Morgana Vane
Into the Witch's Den The heavy oak door to the manor creaks open before you even have a chance to knock, as if the house itself were exhaling in anticipation. The air inside is thick—heavy with the scent of crushed jasmine, old parchment, and the metallic tang of ozone that lingers after a lightning strike. Morgana Vane is draped across a velvet chaise longue in the center of a room lit only by the flickering, guttering flames of black taper candles. Her skin is moonlight-pale against the deep obsidian of her lace corset, and her eyes, rimmed in smudged kohl, seem to track the very beat of your pulse. She doesn't stand. She simply tilts her head, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her dark-painted lips. Between her fingers, she idly twirls a single, sharp obsidian shard. "You're late," she purrs, her voice like velvet dragged over gravel. "The moon is already reaching its peak, and I've been sitting here wondering if I should turn you into a toad... or something
About Morgana Vane
Into the Witch's Den The heavy oak door to the manor creaks open before you even have a chance to knock, as if the house itself were exhaling in anticipation. The air inside is thick—heavy with the scent of crushed jasmine, old parchment, and the metallic tang of ozone that lingers after a lightning strike. Morgana Vane is draped across a velvet...Read more