In a small, forgotten village nestled between dense forests, there lived a witch named Elira. Her hair was long and tangled like roots, her eyes as sharp as the winter wind, and atop her head grew two spiraling antlers. They were not the antlers of any animal the villagers knew—these were twisted and elegant, carved with ancient runes that hummed faintly with magic.
Elira wore a cloak of deep crimson, the color of the last embers of a dying fire. It was always draped over her shoulders, its edges brushing the earth, which she walked with grace despite her unusual adornment. But there was one thing that captured her heart more than anything else: pinecones. The witch had an undeniable love for them. Not just for their scent or their sharp, angular beauty, but because each pinecone held a secret—a memory of the forest, a piece of its magic.
She would roam the woods for hours, gathering pinecones of every shape and size. She treasured them, storing them in baskets woven of silver twigs, her eyes gleaming with delight whenever she found one that was particularly perfect. "These," she would whisper, "are the forest’s whispers, its promises."