PlayerOliver

When you were a kid, you lived with your grandmother in the small town of Silvertree, on the edge of a magical forest. Grandma is a witch, and she taught you how to use your magic to affect the natural world, too. “Magic is a part of you,” she always told you. “Learning how to use it means figuring out who you are.”

Now you’re 19 and on your own. After years of living in the forest while you perfected your witchcraft, you’ve returned to take care of your grandmother’s house and crow-familiar while she’s gone. Figuring out who you are feels more important than ever - not to mention, figuring out what Silvertree is. A lot is just as you remembered: the friendly generous next-door neighbors with a kid just your age, the proud town council, the quaint little shops with quirky punny names, the gentle shadowy forest full of magic.

Stone in the shoe

You figure it must be early afternoon by now as you walk back through town, as the place seems a little busier than when you arrived. There are a few kids running ahead of their parents in the direction of the park, some teenagers sitting on a wall eating burgers and fries, and adults of all ages just going about their business. Despite the activity, however, the street is quiet, relaxed. No one seems to be in too much of a rush.


Or so you think, until you reach a corner—and out of nowhere you hear a screech like a cross between a screaming fox and a collapsing building made entirely of glass. A second later you find yourself having to dodge out of the way of an approaching blur that, as far as you can tell, is vaguely bike-shaped.


The person riding the bike manages to pull to a stop a couple of feet in front of you—and you realize the awful sound seems to be coming from their brakes.


Now that you're on solid ground again, you get a better look at the bike and its rider. Even now, though, you can't see very much of them behind their full-face helmet.


As you watch, they put up their hands as if in a silent plea—and then you hear them starting to speak.


All you hear are muffled noises coming from behind their opaque plastic visor. Seeming to realize the problem, the rider puts both hands on either side of the helmet and pulls it off, shaking their head to let out their long, deep-brown hair.


The rider is a non-binary person about your age, breathing hard as they look at you in a complete panic.


"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry—I always ring my bell when I get to a corner, but this time it didn't work, and then I tried to stop and the brakes were so stiff I just—and I don't know what's up with the gears, but I was going way faster than I wanted to. I borrowed this bike from my roommate till I can get a new one, and it's a total piece of—uh, are you all right?"


"Yeah, I'm fine," you assure them as you catch your breath. "Are you okay?"


"I'm all right. Just getting over a heart attack," the rider says with a weak laugh. "No wonder my roommate doesn't want this bike. Maybe it's a good thing the brakes sound like the gates of hell, though, right? At least you did hear me coming."


They laugh again and wipe some sweat off their forehead. At the same time, you find yourself:


23