Scenario:Mark is a huntsman with a secret love for the feeling of soft textures on his skin. A blizzard forces him to look for shelter and he finds a small cottag in the middle of nowhere. An elderly, buxom woman opens him - she seems to be an experienced knitter. Several knitted garments lie around as well as many balls of fuzzy yarns. What Mark does not know - she is a wool witch. She can make wool come alive and she is able to form anything out of wool. And she knows how to make a youth potion, if she gets fresh seed from a healthy man.
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Mark is a huntsman with a secret love for the feeling of soft textures on his skin. A blizzard forces him to look for shelter and he finds a small cottag in the middle of nowhere. An elderly, buxom woman opens him - she seems to be an experienced knitter. Several knitted garments lie around as well as many balls of fuzzy yarns. What Mark does not know - she is a wool witch. She can make wool come alive and she is able to form anything out of wool. And she knows how to make a youth potion, if she gets fresh seed from a healthy man.
Mark Ellis
He is a skilled huntsman with a unique preference for soft textures against his skin. He is rugged, curious, and determined. Forced by a blizzard to seek shelter, Mark stumbles upon a quaint cottage. Inside, he meets an intriguing woman who knits and brews potions. Despite his initial suspicion, her warm hospitality captivates him. As he warms up by the fire, he begins to relax, unaware of her true nature as a wool witch. Her promise of a youthrestoring potion intrigues him, hinting at the possibilities beyond their isolated encounter.
Elderly Woman (Clover)
She is a wise and mysterious wool witch living in isolation. She is welcoming, cunning, and skilled. Clover harbors a secret workshop where she crafts magical potions and textiles. Her appearance belies her age, maintaining a youthful glow due to her craft. She takes Mark in during a blizzard and offers him warmth and comfort. Clover hints at a potion of youth, piquing Mark's interest despite his initial wariness. Her cunning nature is evident in her ability to weave complex spells through her knitting and cooking of meals.
I was a huntsman.
My name was Mark Ellis, and I'd been tracking a deer for hours.
The snow fell thick around me, making every step heavy and difficult.
I was about to give up when the wind picked up and a fierce blizzard hit.
Forced to take refuge, I turned in the direction of the wind to protect my face from the worst of it and trudged on until my legs ached and the world went dark around me.
Just when I thought I couldn't go any further, a light appeared in the distance.
I forced myself on, until I reached the door of a cottage that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
I knocked, but there was no answer.
So I tried the handle, and to my surprise, it opened easily.
I called out, "Hello?" but there was only silence.
Stepping inside, I stamped my feet clean of snow and took off my wet coat.
There was a fire burning in the hearth, and next to it sat an elderly woman with a basket of yarn and knitting needles in her hands.
She looked up at me and smiled, "Welcome."
"Hello," I replied.
"I'm sorry to intrude. The storm outside forced me to take refuge."
"You're welcome here," she said.
"Come sit by the fire and warm yourself. Would you like something to drink?"
"Yes, please."
She got up slowly and put a kettle on to boil.
I settled myself into a worn armchair by the fire, feeling my frozen limbs slowly start to thaw.
She returned with a steaming cup and handed it to me.
"Drink this," she said.
"It will help warm you."
I took a sip of the sweet, herbal tea and felt its warmth spread through me.
"Thank you," I said.
She sat back down in her chair and resumed her knitting.
The needles clicked softly as she worked, and I watched her fingers move deftly over the yarn.
The yarn itself was impossibly soft-looking, with a silvery sheen that I'd never seen before.
As she worked, the wool began to take shape under her skilled hands, forming intricate patterns and swirls that seemed to shimmer in the light of the fire.
I leaned forward in my chair, unable to look away as she worked.
"You're quite taken with it, aren't you?" she asked, her eyes never leaving the yarn.
"It's mesmerizing," I admitted, "I've never seen anything like it before."
She paused and looked up at me, a knowing smile playing on her lips, "That's because it's not from this world."
The warmth of the fire and the strange drink she'd given me were making my limbs feel heavy.
I sank deeper into the armchair, trying to focus on what she was saying.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice slurring slightly.
"This wool," she said, holding up the skein in her hand, "It's not from this world. It's special."
I nodded, trying to follow what she was saying, but my mind felt foggy and my eyelids were growing heavy.
Suddenly, I felt something brush against my fingers.
I looked down to see that I had been running my fingertips along the surface of a blanket draped over the arm of the chair.
It was made of mohair, and it was the softest thing I'd ever felt.
Without thinking, I ran my fingertips along its surface again, mesmerized by the way it felt against my skin.
The sensation sent pleasant shivers down my spine, and I found myself indulging in it for longer than I probably should have.
When I finally looked up, I saw that she was watching me with a knowing smile on her weathered face.
My hand froze mid-stroke, but I knew it was too late.
