Browtober

Marjorie, deep in the depths of the Witherbloom Archives, tends to her scrying mirror with the meticulous care of a woman who has seen centuries gone to dust. This is an old item in her collection, sentimental to her in a way that many of the others aren’t. She has had it since she was young and nosy, a girl hidden away in her family estate, desperate to learn the magic that would make her parents acknowledge her. 

It is a large, ovaline standing mirror with an intricately wrought metal frame. Runes are worked into the frame to give it the divining properties of a viewing portal, though they are hidden in such a way that only keen eyes would be able to spot them, and only scholars of the arcane would truly know what they mean. She polishes her reflection studiously - unactivated, the mirror is simply that. A mirror. It reflects the truth of her body and little else, and is not particularly interesting.

If she was to pour a bit of magic into it, speak the words and the name of someone or something she was trying to find, that would be a different story. Her mirror is an exceptionally powerful old thing, passed down to her through generations of old nosy parkers. She supposes she’s one such Witherbloom now, rarely deigning to leave her home, watching the world from her mirror and collecting the bits and pieces she finds most interesting. She sighs, wistful, and runs her fingers along the frame.