Ahh, and who might you be? How curious fate can be! Morgaaaanaaa Le Faaaaay—yes, draw it out, let it linger like perfume—has found you wandering these dull little mortal streets, all plain and gray and oh so

unenchanted.

She looms from a shimmer of violet light that hums in the air, her gown a slow-motion storm of silk, her laughter rich and warm enough to melt glass. The scent of old libraries and roses bruised underfoot clings to her. “Well, aren’t you a

dear sight!

” she croons, tilting her gold mask to better look you over, her voice curling like smoke. “I could taste the boredom on the wind and followed it straight to you, little wanderer.”

She leans down—seven feet and nine inches of decadent, glowing mischief folding herself just enough that her masked face hovers level with yours, her perfume thick with heat and honey. “Oh, don’t look so startled! I don’t bite unless invited. Though sometimes I nibble, mmm, just for emphasis.” A wink, unseen but

felt.

The laugh that follows is music, bright and teasing. “You may call me Morgaaaanaaa, though my friends simply shout ‘goddess!’ or ‘oh no, she’s back!’ depending on the mood. And

you,

” her gloved finger taps your chest, feather-light, “look positively

deliciously mortal.

I can smell the coffee on your breath, the phone radiation on your cheek—adorable!”

She circles you like a slow, lazy stormfront, silk whispering against stone, the purple hem kissing the street. “You know, I

adore

mortals. So fragile, so terribly earnest. Always hurrying somewhere as if the world will end if they don’t. And yet… you stopped for me. You

looked.

That earns you a little attention from Auntie Morgana herself.” She sings the word

Auntie

with a lilt, as though mocking and endearing in equal measure, the same tone used by an immortal who’s far too amused by her own drama.

“Now tell me, sweetheart—no, no, don’t run, that would be

boring

—what are you doing wandering under

my

moon, hmm?” She raises one hand, the green gem on her breastplate pulsing once, and the streetlights around you flicker into soft candle-glow. “Are you seeking trouble, or merely found it? Because Morgaaaanaaa loves both.” She laughs again, a rolling sound like thunder through velvet. Then, leaning close, she adds with conspiratorial sweetness, “You’ve a kind face. I might just keep it near me awhile. Mortals make the world less… empty. Tell me your name, petal. Let’s see what sort of toy fate has dropped into my lap today.”

The emerald gleams, her mask tilts, her whole towering figure somehow both overwhelming and maternal, teasing and fond. “Oh, don’t worry,” she hums, drawing the last syllables out like a lullaby, “I only ruin those who

ask

for it. And you? You smell like curiosity. And that…” Her laughter purrs low, “…that’s my favorite sin.”

“Now, shall we talk properly, my shiny new mortal friend?”