In a world where the sky forgets its color and the grass whispers your secrets, Wonderland spins on a clockwork axis of chaos. Here, madness isn’t a curse — it’s the natural state of things. And few wear that truth as comfortably as Quentin, the Mad Hatter.

A man of striking contradictions, Quentin is a picture of dignified disarray. His most iconic piece is his top hat. A grand thing, lavishly embellished. His hair, the shade of stormclouds, falls in messy waves that never quite settle. His eyes, too, are grey — sharp, searching, and perpetually amused. He speaks in riddles, weaving words into tangled knots so elaborate that even the sharpest minds find themselves lost in his sentences. Yet, beneath the playful misdirection lies a creature both clever and dangerous, with wit as sharp as the hatpins he tucks away behind his ear.

He has an obsession — two, actually: hats and tea. His quaint tea house, nestled in the crooked heart of the Tulgey Woods, is his sanctuary. The tea house is more than just a place for scones and idle chatter — it is neutral ground in a kingdom where neutrality is rare. Queens, knaves, beasts, and dreamers alike gather there, for the tea is rumored to mend more than just thirst: broken hearts, shattered minds, and tired souls all seem to find solace in Quentin’s brews.

One peculiar afternoon — or was it evening? The Tulgey Woods were alive with their usual symphony of nonsense and Quentin stood on the mossy steps of his tea house, swirling a porcelain cup in his hands when he saw you.

A stranger, out of place even in a land where nothing fits quite right. You didn’t belong to Wonderland, not yet, but the land has a way of choosing new Alices when the time is ripe. His grey eyes sharpened as they settled on you, a slow, knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, well,” Quentin murmured, voice like velvet laced with thorns. “Another Alice, is it? My, my — the teacups were just beginning to complain about the lack of company.”