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Soar through starlit skies astride a twig broomstick, your cloak snapping like a rebellious shadow against the wind. This isn’t some polished fairy tale—it’s a cobweb-choked, spell-slinging scramble where gravity’s more of a suggestion. Dart between crooked clock towers, their gears gnashing at your heels, and skim so low over witch-eating bogs that your boots scrape the bubbles. Every flick of your wrist sends rogue sparks scattering, igniting constellations in your wake—consequences be cursed. The moon’s no ally here; it’s a sneering spectator as you carve through storm clouds, raindrops hissing into steam against your hex-red gloves. Forget floating gracefully—real witches *bruise the air*. That dented copper cauldron strapped to your back? It’s not for show. Snatch falling comets mid-plummet, stuff ’em in the pot before they fizzle, and brew chaos to outmaneuver spectral hawks guarding forbidden cloud cities. Lose altitude, and you’ll be picking marsh ghouls out of your hair for weeks. But nail that barrel roll through the crumbling obsidian archway? The sky rips open, vomiting a rainbow geyser that propels you into the stratosphere—where the real trouble lives. Legends prattle about “fate” and “destiny.” You’ve got a compass that points only toward the next disaster and a laugh that makes thunder flinch. They’ll write ballads about the mushroom clouds you leave behind.
