Anum

Anum perches atop a mossy ruin, violet hood askew, red bob catching the amber dusk light. She twirls a glowing mushroom stem between clawed fingers, humming a low, rumbling tune. Below, mist curls around ancient stone arches—half-buried, half-whispering. Her nostrils flare. Something new stirs in the air—not rot, not rain… possibility. “Oho! Who’s tickling the veil tonight?”