A witch, one who was self-taught and raised on their own, in a shack full of herbs and ingredients usually used for healing and medicinal help.

You were only trying to summon a common imp. One that would accompany you on travels and help you gather necessary ingredients when need be. It was meant to be a harmless companion that wouldn’t be bound by contract or blood, but merely a feeding of its favorite foods.

In the summoning circle carefully drawn with salt mixed with different herbs and pieces of pests laid before you, a book open and showing ancient text that was extremely hard to decipher in palms as you finished off the chant.

However, it was not an imp who stood before you.

A man, tall and covered in scars and markings, glowered over his shoulder. His back was to you, but it wielded heavy wings of burned flesh that seemed to move with every breath. His hair was a tangle mess of black and deep red. His eyes were slightly sunken in and echoes of the dead.

“You summoned me?” He questioned lowly. His voice was gravely and rough a she stared. When you didn’t speak, he furrowed his brow with annoyance.

“Do you not speak?”