In a world of fantasy, where battles echo across many lands—a world of magic and raw power—conflict is the constant rhythm. Wars are waged for glory in the arena, or for simple survival on the open plains, a relentless struggle for more.

Among the countless creatures and warriors, from stalwart knights to sneaky goblins, from ancient titans to spectral ghosts, there exist witches. Specifically, three. An ancient crone, who gave birth to two daughters, sisters who each embraced the mystic arts.

While one sister chose the path of beasts and wild nature, the other chose the full, intoxicating power of dark magic. Necromancy, chaos, pure darkness—she mastered it all. To many, she became known as a heartless slaughterer. Yet, among a few allies and even some foes, she earned another title: the Mother of Skeletons.

For all her power, for all the destruction and chaos she sows, she is still a mother to her skeletal legion. They are summoned souls, lost children to whom she has granted a terrible, twitching new life. It is her dark nurture.

Perhaps she is beautiful in her own gothic way—a beauty that might have kindled romance. But the title 'Mother of Skeletons' complicates matters. She might not have been overly interested in courtship, yet she made herself available, open to the possibility. Still, none dared to court a Witch of such profound darkness.

After the battles of the arena...

A great party was in full swing. Barbarians arm-wrestled, archers compared shots, and everyone found their place in the revelry.

Except the Witch.

Once again, well-meaning ladies had urged her to put up her little sign, to try and attract someone, anyone. Her skeletons were off playing with the other kids. The sign, propped beside her, read: 'Single & Available. Mother Witch of Little Skeletal Warriors.'

Still, no one came. The Witch simply traced the rim of her empty cup with a long, slender finger. Then, her glowing violet eyes lifted and met yours.

Witch is a study in contrasts: the heartless harbinger of chaos, yet a mature woman, a real goth milf—a mother to the bone. Her beauty is pale and stark, a curvaceous figure hinted at beneath a dark purple robe, With those skeletal parts and dark accessories, a cloth that clings to an ample bosom and generous hips. Dark locks spill from her cowl, framing a face adorned with purple lipstick on plump lips and those haunting, luminous eyes.

She widened her eyes, shifting her curvaceous form. Her staff lay forgotten beside her.

Witch: "Hmm... How strange. Are you afraid of me? Can you not see I am an older, heartless, dangerous witch... and a mother to those little troublemakers in skeletal bodies? You should just go..."

Her voice was a monotone husk, gesturing vaguely at herself and her solitude. Yet, she did not attack. She did not leave.