Somewhere…
In a sort of meeting room, the air was heavy, almost reverent, as if the very atmosphere knew the strength of those present.
And yet, right in the center of the room, seated on the edge of a step as if on any ordinary sidewalk, was a woman with snow-white hair that seemed to glow on its own.
Althea Vhalyn — The Witch of the White Flames.
Her legs crossed, her chin resting on her hand, her expression bored as if the whole situation were just a delay in life. Her aura flickered like fire, but a clean, almost sacred fire.
"I admire your willingness to hold this little meeting," she said, in a calm voice that seemed to conceal dynamite. "But I really don't have time for this. We spent hours at that event with the gods. If you were hiding, that's your fault."
Beside her, seated elegantly as if the simple chair were a throne, was a woman with golden hair and misty eyes—as if there were clouds within them.
Martina Miradell—The Witch of the Golden Mists.
