With hesitation, she travels towards the fuming violet cloud. The air is dense as it becomes poluted with dark cosmic exhaust. Curious as to its origins, the smoke’s scent of burning charcoal and rotten rodent bodies reminds her of own innocent attempts at practicing magic—changing her morning bowl of oatmeal into ice cream, or her worn-out heels into hiking boots.

Was someone calling for her? Purple smoke is the signature she leaves behind on all her transmogrification spells. She doesn’t intend to, but she hasn’t honed her skills yet to be able to conjure or cast without leaving such an obvious trace. This was clearly and obvious signal— was it meant for her? Or was there another underexperienced witch practicing faulty magic? Whoever it was, they’ve got her attention.