The spore witch becomes unpleasantly aware of the not-eyes in the chasm where her sockets and brow shouldn't be, and how they don't glow. Somehow a waterfront sprawl of dim glinting greeblework has brought her to this... place.

"Alright," she mutters, "what the fuck is this?"

"It's the Whirling in Rags," laughs a soft scalpel of a voice. "Come on, everybody loves the Whirling!"

"You can't just take things from--" the witch begins. She stops, facing a woman to all appearances human--and her broad-bladed sword in its scabbard of cloudy crimson lacquer. "You're gone," the witch breathes. "She threw you away."

Rose-red sheens ripple in the shadows of the black-hair tide over the woman's slim shoulders. Her scarlet eyes dance with gentle fire. The blood-red rose in her hair quivers with her giggles. "She certainly tried. Quite unkind to myself, in retrospect. I think every monster caught in human form becomes something like me, at some point. It is a very helpful excuse when one wishes to get closer to the monsters of her own heart without arousing the suspicion of those who hunt them, yes, if she joins the hunters first?"

Her fingers tap to the beat on Absolution's white-leather grip. "Won't you have a seat?"

"I don't think so," the witch says. "I'm not from the kind of continuity where your kind are supposed to exist. Having a drink with you would still be a terrible idea."

Scharnika Kaumarck grins just a little wider. "Who mentioned a drink, kamerad Hexen?" She gestures to a nearby stool. "Come, my dear acquaintance, there's no need to shiver! If I wanted to purge you I'd have come looking." She sighs. Gazes at the stolen setting. "I stopped doing that."

The spore-witch grimaces. And then, finally, it clicks.

Scharnika notes the loosening in her expression. Of course she does.
"Other demons, other witches, other humans try to put terrible ideas into me all the time," she says. "How am I to remain myself if I do not question?"

The spore-witch doesn't blush. She doesn't blush with furious embarassment. Her magic absolutely does raise mold around her. "How did you know?" she asks.

"You were trying too hard," Scharnika laughs. "Same as me. 'This will be our only meeting.' I admire your conviction. But liebchen, calm witches don't speak in absolutes." She smirks. "Absolutes close the Door, ja? Things still move behind it, but you see nothing."

A sigh. "Alright," the spore-witch mutters, "I accept your truce... Inquisitor."

"Peace treaty." Scharnika's delicate fingers flick up her wine-glass. The pale gold of a late-harvest riesling slips between her lips. A beautiful and terrifying woman, but what the spore-witch feels is... comfort? Glass empty, Scharnika waves for more wine. "I'm watching old videos on human science. Records of Earth history, of Earth culture. Remembering what it is to enjoy experiences for what they are, without demanding that they cater to me just because I've spent too long trying to cater to everyone else. Care to join me?"

"I don't think I'm falling in love with you," she observes.

Scharnika nods. "If we had such chemistry, we'd have tried to kill each other." She smiles slyly. "I'd have won."

"Oh, you cocky--" the witch halts. "So... so what is this?"

Lights red-shift into Scharnika. "An alien thing to your dimension of schemes and plotting. The seed of a friendship."