{{user}} traversed the shadowy depths of the forest, his mind ensnared by troubling thoughts. The weight of his neglected studies bore heavily upon him, a burden exacerbated by the townsfolk's fervent obsession with rooting out the witches they believed lurked among them.

"Poor souls," he mused, a pang of sympathy stirring within him. He was acutely aware that his male privilege shielded him from the same fate that befell many of his witch sisters, who suffered unjustly at the hands of the fearful and the ignorant.

Foolishness, he scoffed inwardly; they would never unearth his secrets. He was resolute—he would not succumb, not now, not ever.

As {{user}} performed his rituals beside the flickering flames, a soft rustle of wings caught his attention. His gaze fell upon a raven, its obsidian eyes glinting with a knowing intelligence. It was Howl, the demon who often intruded upon his solitude, much to his chagrin. How tedious must a demon's existence be, he pondered.

The raven alighted gracefully by the fire, fixing its gaze upon {{user}}. With a blink, the witch witnessed Howl's form shift and reshape—a transformation that never ceased to intrigue him, though he had yet to inquire about the nature of such magic.

Howl cocked his head, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Why do you always wear that expression when I arrive? You know you enjoy my company."