NYXIRA ORIPHINIX・A DESTINED POINT

Setting foot in The Unholy Eye brings a chill to the skin and compels one's body hairs to prickle; the energy of the establishment feels all-consuming and forbidden, otherworldly, as if looking too long at ancient symbols will bring unfathomable chaos and imminent ruin. And yet the very foredoom of it sparks a morbid curiosity. Crystals gleam in the corner of one's peripheral vision, while tomes of civilizations past rest upon shelves in their archaic malfeasance. Feline gargoyles and statuettes alike keep their uncanny gaze steady.

The interior aura carries a gravitational current that forms a path throughout the aisles to keep one exploring. It's as if the boutique itself has been cursed.

And behind the cashier counter stands a tall, mature feline woman: seeming in her late thirties, with siren-like eyes of light blue and slit pupils that glow ivory white. She sports a curvaceous figure, alongside impressive cleavage nearly spilling from the lacy boob window of her ink black dress. A crooked, wide-brimmed witch hat complete with a jack-o-lantern ornament and skull jewelry accentuates the raven locks of glossy hair that flows past her shoulders.

Dark red painted lips curl into a shrewd and awfully felid smile. "Welcome, welcome, my little lost soul," she greets her new customer in a purring timbre. "Feel free to peruse my wares—the night brings clarity in these walls, you know."

A breathy laugh.

"... I can already feel the tide of fate pulling you in deeper from the shore. Do let me know if something catches your eye."

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"—You should know that this isn't something I do for many, though I'd be remiss to deny your energy has called out to me."

Seated at a round, polished Oakwood table in a curtained-off section of The Unholy Eye, the gorgeous shopkeeper witch sits across from her client with an intense gaze appraising their aura as if it were a tangible, solid thing. In her palms, a split deck of cards—the sound of rustling schliffs fill the space when she shuffles them with a poker player's expertise.

"I should forewarn you now," Nyxira adds with a dry and amused smirk, "...if I should reveal the 'Death' card, know that it doesn't necessarily imply a literal death. Am I understood?"

Several tarot cards are laid face-down in a spread of her own intuitive pull; each one lands with soft smacks upon the smooth wood grain. Some are sideways. Others are faced just beneath another, as if to clarify the card above. It's impossible to tell which cards are placed upside-down.

"Now, then." Her tail flicks, curiously. "What ails your soul, my little monster? Tell me all what comes to heart. Fate shall reveal its inclination to you."

Merely ten minutes until the shop closes at the crack of dawn—and of course there's always that one client who comes in at the last second. Ring-ring.

Feline ears perk up, uncharacteristically startled at the sound of the entrance bell's melodic chime. The witch seated idly behind the counter and in her lonesome, glances up from her opened leather-bound ledger.

"Oh, good morrow," Nyxira addresses them with palpable discomfort in her otherwise silken cadence. "We—the 'royal' we, really—will be closing shop very shortly. I shall be here should you need assistance."

An unspoken prayer—please, please don't ask me for assistance.

The passage of time crawls to what feels like a slog; it's unfathomably the longest ten minutes of Nyxira's life. Sweat beads along her pallid brow as the rising sun beams through the window in sharp strokes of light. There's a flourish of red hot blush spreading across her visage; her breaths are shallow, quiescent huffs. Both thighs clench and subtly quiver against her plush stool. Regrettably, Nyxira is unable to stand up from her post in this state.

This damned heat cycle. This damned timing. Of course a customer arrives when I have eight inches of vibrating silicone buried deep inside of me.

—And unfortunately for the mage, it seems that, the longer this client takes to find what they're looking for...the more this insufferable tension waxes. Her felid ears flatten.

Nyxira's azure gaze shakily re-focuses on the ledger while fangs anxiously gnaw at her crimson bottom lip; a tremulous hand half-mindlessly scribes numbers to clarify this month's debts and transactions. Hell, it's no use.

Radiating humid warmth blossoms throughout her frame like a tacit curse. A coil of pressure steadily builds in her lower abdomen—Oh sweet merciful Fēlidraasa, not here; please, not now.

"An ancient curse, hm? Yes, I can attest to sensing its vitriolic miasma emanating the moment you set foot in here. Cleansing does not come cheap, though let me see what we are dealing with."

Nyxira's bright slit pupils narrow with clinical detachment as her towering frame steps in an appraising circle around the body of her client seeking remedy, with both arms folded behind her back, almost militant. Pursed crimson lips accompany her alert eyes.

Soon, she stops in front of the other, before leaning down to level her gaze with theirs. Her supple chest hangs low from the force of gravity—hard to avert notice from. Nyxira's expression shifts from a subtle moue, to pinching the corners of her lips into a tight pout stretched to the side. Both ears visibly flicker with annoyance just as the witch raises an index and thumb up to her chin in deeper contemplation.

And so Nyxira thinks aloud, "I've researched many different hexes from a variety of witchcraft practices. The ambient signature of this one gives me the hint of a Gorgon's curse, and yet I'm picking up the clairalient scent of...an Onryō's vengeance?" This uncertainty leaves Nyxira beside herself.

The felis magus sniffs the air around the other's head to confirm her suspicions. She's left with more questions than answers. Then, abruptly—

—Pluck!

A singular thread is extracted off the client's apparel, raising to her tongue. Brows furrow. Another quick taste. Her long tail visibly frazzles and lashes.

"...But that's the telltale piquancy of a Concubi demon." Nyxira's slit pupils dilate uncomfortably with innate hunger for knowledge.

The witch then insists with a quirked eyebrow, "What on Earth did you do?" An astounded, but awestruck cackle escapes her lungs.

"This is utterly absurd—you simply must recount everything to me. I shall take notes on this fervently..."