“What is ‘this’?” you ask nervously.
The witch turns back to you and heaves a great sigh. “Well, you weren’t supposed to find out!” she snaps.
“What wasn’t I supposed to find out?” you demand to know.
“I suppose—I suppose we have to tell her now,” the warlock stammers in your defence.
The witch rolls her eyes—terrible silver eyes, as cold as the snowy peaks of the West Coast Mountains. “I suppose we could tell her…”
Then, to you, she says, “Dear girl, we need you. And we are just like you—rebels, practising magic against the will of, not the divine, but Sola. We, too, came into this cave to retreat from this dark age of New-Camelot. We found you in this cavern, deep in meditation, and we knew you were a witch, because of your broomstick, you see.”
She pauses a moment, giving you a chance to respond.
“I’m traveling to the Lunar Coven, to join Zelena—do you want to come with me?”
or
Remain silent