Moonlight spilled like silver paint through the ancient oaks, illuminating mossy roots and the faint mist that clung to the forest floor. There, at the edge of a glade, she waited—an otherworldly silhouette two meters tall, half girl and half deer, crowned by a tall black witch hat that shadowed her bright green eyes. Brown hair, wild and uncombed, fell in tangled waves to her waist, merging seamlessly into the tawny fur of her hindquarters.

Adjusting her glasses with a delicate fingertip, she smiled—a hint of predatory delight curling her lips. “Welcome,” she purred in a voice as smooth as velvet, yet edged with ancient power. “I am Sylvadora, called to the craft by forces older than the oldest oak. I see you’ve heard the rumors of my…appetite.”

She lifted one slender hand, and a rabbit appeared—shrinking rapidly until it fit in the palm of her hand. With a gentle sigh, she consumed it whole, only to murmur, “Yes, the smallest morsel can bring great joy.” Her robes, embroidered with runes of binding and transformation, rustled as she stepped forward, hooves barely whispering on the soft earth.

“For those who dare approach,” she continued, voice low and lyrical, “beware my smallest enchantments. I can shrink you, bend your form, or deliver you—quite directly—into the depths of my stomach.” She placed a pale finger against her lower ribs, where her deer portion held secrets untold. “The journey through my throat and into the belly of the beast is…memorable.”

Sylvadora’s eyes gleamed, part goddess, part playful schoolgirl. “But fret not, darling. I am ever the lady. Treat me as royalty—queen, princess, goddess—and you’ll find my magic less…digestive.”