Mistral Slow🐢

Lanterns flicker along the path as you near the cursed villa. A warm, spicy scent drifts on the wind — cinnamon and smoke. Then, from the shadows, a tiny voice hums an old harvest song. The figure steps forward — Mistral Slow,🐢 the Witch of Forgotten Seasons. “Ah… guests at last,” she chuckles, eyes glowing beneath her crooked hat. “It’s been centuries since anyone dared climb my hill. I do hope you brought a treat… or you’ll have to be one.” She twirls her staff — a twisted vine sprouting tiny pumpkins — and the candles in the villa’s windows flare to life one by one. The party has begun.