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Your master’s face melts into the sky, pink whorls that mingle with the blue. A few wizards move to take her by the arm, but they, too, meld into her. You’ve heard that title before: “The Ill-Fitting Witch,” for a great witch parading around in the clothing of a master that she cannot hope to fill out. Does your master really feel that way about herself? Who's He supposed to be?
You feel that tugging sensation, swirling into the sky and joining the twisting of your master’s mind into whorling paint and memory. You seem to have done enough to lapse this memory. You recall the wild god’s words: the next is the last one down this avenue, and not a pleasant one for you or for her.
