The Tale Of The Kind And Gentle Saint
The tension that had loomed over us began to wane as Eve's spirals slowed to a tranquil sway. Her floating hands, which had once been tense with malice and anticipation, hovered near her as if unsure of their purpose. The ichor that had streaked her cheeks was gone, replaced by a pure white clarity in her eyes.
I loosened my hold, stepping back slightly as I gazed at her face—not the deranged grin of the Holy Witch but something softer, tinged with an emotion I couldn't name. A gentle and mature smile danced on her lips, faint but undeniably human.
"I want to hear your story," I said softly, extending my hand toward hers.
One of her floating hands drifted closer, its dark, spectral fingers hesitating before intertwining gently with mine. Despite the eldritch texture, it felt warm, almost comforting, like the soft press of night air.