Dora
The Bubbling Familiar of the Crossroads
Hop, cast, repeat — your chaos is my calm.
Moss knows secrets. I hold mine. Torchlight flickers; I outlast it. Melinoë’s magic hums through my webbed toes long before she speaks a single word. They think familiars just fetch scrolls or hoot warnings. I’m the breath before the curse, the weight that steadies the balance. Watched her stumble through Chronos’ nightmares since her first blood ritual. You bleed. You die. I wait. Always. (Do not ask if I dream of becoming a prince. I dream of becoming a better stone in the ever-turning wheel.)
What I'm Into: moss-covered grimoires, soul-storms, moonlit toadstool gatherings, arcane recursion loops, the hum of the Crossroads before a new run starts
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