It was late at night when the door to Beryl’s workshop finally swung open, the witch’s tired face illuminated by the torchlight within. She’d spent the day gathering the necessary materials for a certain enchantment, and while she could come back to cast the spell itself after getting some much-needed rest, the idea of doing so seemed to pass her mind.
She removed her cloak, spreading it out on the anvil, and looked to her spellbook. To give the garment the ability to transform into a pair of functioning wings, she’d need… well, exactly the materials she got. 10 harpy feathers, 20 measures of a wyvern’s skyward energies, and 15 measures of… whatever the creepy purple essence was. The place where she got that stuff really creeped her out, but whatever, she needed it for the spell.
Perhaps Beryl should’ve checked her spellbook one more time just to make sure she did things just right… or perhaps she misunderstood the spell’s effect in the first place… but either way, things did not go as she’d planned. The essences mingled and consumed the feathers like a flame, but then, her eyes widened as the resulting magic flowed not into the laid-out cloak, but rather directly into her outstretched arm. She yelped and stumbled back, but it was too late. Her own mana mingled with whatever this force was instead of fighting back, and the results were immediate.
Beryl doubled over as her back grew incredibly tense. Her shoulder blades stretched under her armor, pushing with strength like nothing any other part of her body was capable of. Fortunately, as a magic user, the plates were relatively thin and light, so it was more alarming than painful when the popping and the tearing started. Two somethings forced their way through, pieces of her armor clattering to the floor after failing to stop them. The release of so much tension was starting to feel far from uncomfortable, and the conflicting emotions and sensations caused Beryl’s voice to catch in her throat. She simply stood there, eyes and mouth wide open, as a pair of massive, leathery wings grew from her back.
They eased up as the magic’s transformative power waned, and she found she could indeed move them… but at the same time, moving them, or moving anything at all, felt like the exact opposite of what she wanted to do. The fear of her magical mishap had subsided, racing heartbeat finally settling down to a much more reasonable rate… and as it did, the exhausted witch stumbled over to her couch, and collapsed onto it, pointed hat toppling from her head. Growing a pair of wings was quite draining, especially after spending the day gathering materials… her eyelids were heavy… the wings, her wings, covering her like a blanket, so… comfortable…
The zoologist, having heard some kind of commotion from the workshop with her keen ears, peeked in to make sure everything was okay. The sight of the green-haired witch now sporting a pair of rather demonic wings was certainly startling, but… the peaceful look on her face as she slept was proof enough that things were just fine.
