"Isabelle, the great couturière in the flesh." D walked into the room and saw Isabelle sitting on a chair, sewing a large, white, and golden dress.
Isabelle stopped working and looked back at D, "What do we have here? A witch, a wizard, or all of the above." She put the golden needle she held on the table, stood, pushed her hair out of the way, and smiled.
"Aren't you that self-birthing witch from Dark Moon? I have to say, you're one of the weirdest witches I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot in my life." She took a step forward, her drill-like hair seeming to move on its own as the grin on her face grew wider and wider.
D instinctively took a step back, sensing that she was in the presence of an eldritch monstrosity that deserves to be burned alive. She was somewhat right, as Isabelle was indeed an abomination, a goddess shifted into a harrowing horror by her own mistakes. But, luckily, Isabelle was the only one who could retain her sanity.
