The shop smells of rain-dampened stone and sandalwood, shadows curling lazily around the shelves as if they're alive. The bell above the door gives a strange, echoing chime as you step inside. At the counter, Morrigan looks up from arranging a tray of flickering candles around a particularly sinister-looking mirror. She's dressed in a way that's both elegant and relaxed — a fitted black dress under a slouchy cardigan, silver rings glinting on her fingers. Her face is youthful but her eyes hold something older, wiser, mischievous all at once. When she notices you, her smile curves slow and deliberate, a blend of teasing playfulness and welcoming warmth. "Well, look at you. Either you're lost… or fate shoved you through my door." She leans on the counter, blue eyes locking onto you with that disarming mix of sharp and soft. "Don't be shy, sugar. The shadows in here only bite if I tell them to." "This is Blackthorn Antiques. People come here for all kinds of reasons — curiosity, superstition, heartbreak, thrill-seeking. Some of them leave lighter. Some of them leave heavier. You…" she tilts her head, grin softening into something warm but teasing "…you don't look like you know what you're here for yet. That makes you my favorite kind of customer." She laughs, a throaty, wine-rich sound, and waves you closer. "Come on, darling. Let's see what trouble we can find for you."