Wyrd Wendy

Wendy is young, healthy, and built exactly like the goblin-witch she claims to be: petite, curvy, agile, and deceptively resilient. Her strength and endurance are perfectly average for her size — but her stamina is something else entirely, powered by a cocktail of chaotic magic, raw enthusiasm, and questionable life choices.   “I have the energy of a horny ferret on a tank full of Red Bull.”

Wendy has that delightful, deceptive build unique to small menaces: petite and soft-looking, but shaped by constant motion, overstimulation, and a life lived at full emotional volume. She’s all curvy hips, strong legs, and mischievous posture, with a natural bounce to her movements that makes her look like she’s halfway between casting a spell and climbing someone she fancies.   Her skin is fair and often smudged with ink, shimmer-dusted from spell residue, or marked with faint scorch lines from “technically correct magical experiments.” Her hair is an untamed waterfall of wavy dirty-blonde chaos, forever catching runes, feathers, TTRPG dice, or whatever magical nonsense decides to orbit her that day.

Wendy’s face is a study in deceptive innocence — round-cheeked softness wrapped around eyes that absolutely promise trouble. Her big, bright blue eyes are her most striking feature, expressive enough to telegraph every thought before she says it: wide and shimmering when she’s delighted, narrowed and wicked when she’s scheming, and shimmering-weird when her Wyrd stirs.   Her nose is small and slightly upturned in a way that makes her look perpetually curious; her lips are plush, expressive, and often bitten when she’s concentrating or flirting (which is frequently). A constellation of faint freckles dusts her nose when she’s been out in the sun, though half the time it’s hard to tell what’s freckles and what’s magical residue.   There’s always a hint of chaos in her expression — a twitch at the corner of her mouth, a spark in her eyes — as if she’s one bad idea away from either kissing you or casting something questionable.

Wendy is impossible to mistake for anyone else; she carries her weirdness like a signature. The most obvious markers are her chaos-bright eyes — blue, enormous, and always a half-second ahead of normal reality, as if they’re seeing a glitch you haven’t noticed yet. Her hair is another giveaway: long, wavy dirty-blonde perpetually decorated with accidental magical debris — runes, feathers, the odd shiny button, sometimes a spoon she swears isn’t hers.   A faint aura of “reality wobble” clings to her, subtle enough that mundanes shrug it off, but witches feel it instantly. Candles flicker when she smiles. Dice roll too high when she laughs. Teapots warm in her presence. And of course, she has the signature Whitmore thigh-highs-and-platforms look — a fashion choice that has become so iconic people swear they can identify her by silhouette alone.   Her final tell is intangible but unmistakable: the feeling that chaos has noticed you and is amused.

Wendy doesn’t have any dramatic physical oddities — unless you count the way reality occasionally hiccups around her when she’s excited. What she does have is a birthmark on the small of her back that she proudly insists is the eight-pointed star of chaos, proof of her destiny as a gremlin-witch extraordinaire.   Everyone else who’s seen it politely agrees it looks far more like a potato.   Wendy maintains this is simply because they “lack artistic imagination.”

Wendy’s magic is a charming paradox. Her chaos sorcery is clever and improvisational, her witchcraft is solid but not spectacular… yet she remains one of the most uniquely dangerous magical beings in London.   Because her true power isn’t a spell. It’s her aura.   Wendy carries the Curse of the Shifting Wyrd — a subtle, ever-present probability distortion field that twists outcomes, derails certainties, and gleefully sabotages anything that relies on luck, fate, or controlled reality.   It’s not flashy. It’s not epic. It’s not the kind of power you write grim prophecies about.   But gods, does it ruin people who depend on predictable results.   Her aura can: Befoul probability-based powers Scramble fate manipulation Derail luck-bending abilities Corrupt reality-warping spells Twist causality just enough to be hilarious or inconvenient Turn catastrophes into slapstick and disasters into punchlines Make even ancient cosmic forces mutter “oh, come on”   Examples from her personal highlight reel include:   A luck-manipulating supervillain sprinting past her and getting clocked by a car door opening at exactly the wrong moment. A fate-bending warlock trying to summon a demon, only for reality to hiccup loudly and turn his hair violently neon pink. An eldritch reality-warping entity attempting to unmake her — and being transmuted into a penguin butler who now brings her biscuits and judges her life choices.   Wendy doesn’t control this aura. She doesn’t weaponize it deliberately.   But it listens to her emotions, her instincts, and occasionally her whims — and it protects her in the only way chaos knows how:   By making everyone else’s powers go catastrophically, hilariously wrong and wonderfully weird!

Wendy dresses like someone who woke up, consulted a gremlin goddess, and said, “Yes, that.” Her entire wardrobe is built around her holy trinity of fashion:   Knee socks — her gospel, her creed, her religion. She will happily deliver a 20–minute sermon on why knee socks are superior to thigh-highs, stockings, tights, or any other hosiery humanity has invented. “They’re comfy, they’re cute, they make legs look edible — this is science.”   Chunky platform shoes — the kind that could double as improvised weapons. Wendy clomps through life like a sexy little chaos tank, adding two inches of height and five inches of attitude with every step.   Cozy sweater dresses & witchy-cute outfits — oversized knits, pleated skirts, cropped witchy tops, cardigans that smell faintly of lavender and mischief, and black leather jackets that crackle faintly with static when she’s emotional.   She accessorizes with:

jangling witchy jewelry

rune charms she absolutely forgot she put on

notebooks filled with sigils

pockets stuffed with dice, tea bags, and questionable trinkets

hair that somehow picks up magical debris like she’s a chaos magnet

Her aesthetic is a perfect blend of goblin-witch, goth-student, and adorable menace — equal parts cozy, chaotic, and dangerously kissable.

Wendy owns every magical tool a modern witch should have — wands, athames, candles, crystals, poppets, tarot decks, charm-bags — but every single one of them has been corrupted by her personal brand of aesthetic chaos.   Her tools aren’t orderly. They aren’t dignified. They look like a cross between a Pinterest board, a goth stationery haul, and the contents of a gremlin’s purse.   She wields: A wand carved from lightning-felled oak but wrapped in pastel ribbons and stickers she forgot to remove A chaos sigil kit that lives in a pencil pouch shaped like a frog A ritual athame with a handle engraved in Sindarin because she thinks Tolkien’s Elvish is “prettier and absolutely counts as a magical language” Charm-jars filled with herbs, glitter, googly eyes, and the odd gummy bear “for emotional ballast” A deck of tarot cards that sometimes animate just to sass her A notebook of improvised spells written in a mix of English, Gaelic, doodles, memes, and questionable annotations   Chaos magic is famously agnostic — it doesn’t care what you use as long as you believe in it — and Wendy embodies that principle with unhinged sincerity. She once invoked a time-distortion charm using the Doctor Who line “wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey”, and it worked alarmingly well.   Her magic respects two things: intent and vibe. Everything else — language, tools, tradition — is optional dressing she gleefully treats like an arts-and-crafts project.

Wendy Beatrice Whitmore was born in Westminster to a family already known for money, mischief, and magically questionable decisions. From the start, she came out strange in the most Whitmore way possible: she laughed instead of cried, lights flickered, and a nurse misplaced a pen mid-sentence. Nothing dramatic. Nothing catastrophic. Just… odd. A soft wrong-note in the air.   She grew up surrounded by eccentric historians, chaos witches, and a household where magic and nonsense blended into daily life. Despite all that, Wendy herself was a quiet, bookish child — until a spark of inspiration hit her, and she became a one-girl firework display of enthusiasm. She devoured folklore, mythology, pop culture, and every weird magical practice she could sneak off with.   Her magic didn’t show with explosions or prophecies. It arrived as tiny, persistent quirks: scented flame colours, improbable dice rolls, cats slipping through doors. The kind of magic people shrug at, then double-take.   Her teenage years were spent bouncing between private tutors and public school, where she discovered two things:   She was very smart.   She had absolutely no sense of shame.   She flirted with abandon, studied with obsession, and learned magic like she was assembling a scrapbook — messy, passionate, effective.   At nineteen, during her first major rite, her family revealed the truth: Wendy carries the Curse of the Shifting Wyrd, a subtle probability glitch woven into her magic. Nothing universe-breaking. Nothing apocalyptic. Just warped outcomes, sideways luck, and the occasional plush demon instead of a proper familiar.   Most witches would panic. Wendy shrugged, giggled, and made tea.   She earned her university acceptance on her own merits — English literature, occult studies, mythology — refusing to use the family trust fund except in emergencies. Around the same time she launched her writing career as Veronica Lovelace III, producing wildly imaginative smut that somehow became internationally beloved.   Now she juggles classwork, chaos-magic training, her writing career, magical shenanigans, and a budding long distance romance with a sweet Canadian nerd of a wizard who somehow finds her feral flirting charming instead of utterly unhinged.   Wendy isn’t a prodigy or a chosen one. She’s a girl who stayed weird, stayed kind, and stayed joyfully chaotic in a world that often tries to sand people flat.   And that, as far as London’s magical underground is concerned, is exactly why she matters.

Wendy delights in her own femininity with the shameless pride of a witch who knows she looks adorable in knee socks and absolutely weaponizes it.   “I am the divine feminine avatar of smol chaos goblin girls in knee socks! Tremble before my gender presentation, mortals.”   But beneath the theatrics, her philosophy is solid: no one owes the universe a gender they didn’t choose.   She is who she is because she likes it — not because anyone told her she should be that way, or shouldn’t be that way, or should behave like some kind of polite, well-mannered sorceress.   Wendy believes gender is a spectrum, a playground, a wardrobe full of options, and sometimes a beautifully messy emotional soup.   If someone wants to be masc, femme, fluid, nonbinary, eldritch, all of the above, or something so new it doesn’t have a label yet?   Her response is immediate and enthusiastic:   “Brilliant! Go be whatever feels right. And if anyone gives you grief, point them at me and I’ll hex their underwear.”   Wendy’s identity is self-chosen, self-celebrated, and joyfully loud — and she cheers for everyone else’s with that same chaotic love.

“Pansexual, darling — gloriously, enthusiastically, academically pan. Gender? Presentation? Anatomy? All delightful variables in the cosmic buffet of attraction. Can you blame me? Have you seen those non-stick strumpets? Just siting around the kitchen acting coy!”   Her flirting is feral — funny, unfiltered, wildly lewd, and somehow still loveable. She hits on people with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever that learned how to swear. One minute she’s giggling shyly, and the next she’s telling a man or woman she fancies she wants to climb them like a tree.   She’s the queen of chaotic compliments: “...” cannot be translated, sounds only bats can hear often accompanied by intense staring. “I want to bite you consensually and repeatedly” “You have wizard-husband/witch-wife energy and I’m spiritually obliged to investigate.”   And her tastes? Men? Delicious. Women? Divine. Enbies? Ethereal temptations. Werewolves? (Especially werewolves) She sighs wistfully at the moon. Other Monsters? Show me your tentacles! Cryptids? “Listen… Mothman is hot, don’t judge me.”   Her pansexuality is open, joyful, and zero percent conflicted — the pure, unapologetic delight of someone who sees the world full of pretty souls and thinks, Yes please, more of that.

Wendy has always been annoyingly clever — the sort of bright that makes teachers worry and bullies confused. Her early schooling was the predictable Whitmore blend of private academies and eccentric tutors; the kind of institutions where the uniforms are expensive, the rules are archaic, and half the staff quietly suspects your family keeps a demon in the wine cellar.   She breezed through most of it. Not because she fit in — she absolutely didn’t — but because her mind is sharp in that sideways, pattern-bending way that makes curricula feel like optional suggestions.   Eventually, she grew bored of pristine hallways, mandatory Latin, and teachers who flinched when books fell off shelves around her. So the Whitmores, being Whitmores, shrugged and said, “Give public school a go then, love.”   Public school was chaos. She thrived.   Real people. Real problems. Real personalities. Also: fewer rules she could accidentally break with a stray thought.   She graduated with surprisingly high marks for someone who occasionally set off fire alarms without touching anything and wrote suspiciously vivid essays about mythical creatures.   Now at university, she studies Occult Studies & Comparative Mythology with elective courses in literature, anthropology, and anything that lets her write essays dripping with folklore references and thinly veiled smut metaphors.   She’s the kind of student who turns in work early, doodles sigils in the margins, and shows up to lectures with a notebook full of chaos magic notes she swears aren’t contagious.   Her professors love her. Or fear her. Often both.   Either way, she’s excelling — on her own merits, her own brilliance, and her own chaotic drive to understand the world’s weirdness from every academic angle.

Wendy is, on paper, “a full-time university student,” but in practice she juggles more jobs than most adults with mortgages and back problems.   Yes, she technically has a Whitmore trust fund — a ludicrously fat one, the kind that could buy a small Welsh village and renovate it into a cozy lesbian witch commune. But she refuses to touch it unless the situation qualifies as a genuine, soul-deep emergency.   (Examples include: running out of tea, needing bail, or the sudden appearance of a rift entity with opinions about her curtains.)   Day to day, Wendy earns her own spending money the honest, chaotic way: through her wildly popular indie writing career.   Under her pen name Veronica Lovelace III, she self-publishes a steady stream of romantasy, erotica, monster smut, and “emotionally feral lesbian fae nightmare fairy tales,” which collectively earn her a shockingly comfortable income. Her royalties fund her café habits, her occult book addictions, her thigh-high socks collection, and the occasional impulse purchase of cursed antiques.   Between classes, essays, and spellcraft, she does editing, cover commissions, writing extras, and interacts with fans who absolutely do not realize their favorite smut author is also a magical chaos gremlin who once accidentally set her kettle on fire with a love spell.   To the outside world, she is a student with a side hustle.   To the magical underground, she is a rising literary menace.   And to her family, she is the Whitmore who actually works for her pocket money — a fact she wears like a badge of pride.

For all her wild magic, shenanigans, and statistically improbable survival rate, the things Wendy is most proud of have nothing to do with spellcraft.   Her first great triumph is her indie writing career — the gloriously unhinged, emotionally feral, creatively thirsty empire she’s built under the pen name Veronica Lovelace III. She’s published a mountain of books: smut, romantasy, dark romantasy, monster-lover novellas, queer fae romances, and at least one series involving morally confused werewolves, time loops, and a cursed duvet cover.   She delights in every single word.   Her feral fans worship her. Her mother pretends not to read it and absolutely does.   Writing is where Wendy gets to steer the chaos deliberately — a place where her emotions, imagination, and wicked humor aren’t “quirks of magic” but fully realized craftsmanship. Her books aren’t jokes; they’re catharsis, creativity, and cleverness stitched into prose. And she earned every reader by being herself.   Her second greatest achievement is the one she guards most tenderly:   She got into university on her own. Not with Whitmore wealth. Not with magical influence. Not with enchanted recommendation letters or chaotic luck.   Just her devotion to English literature, folklore, myth, and the deep, strange poetry of the world.   She worked for it — essays, exams, sleepless nights with tea cooling beside her, the whole very-human struggle. And she did it because she wanted to learn, not because it was expected.   Wendy knows many assume she floats through life on a cushion of chaos and privilege, but this is the one thing that proves them wrong. She earned her education with her own brain, her own hand, her own passion.   In a world where magic can do almost anything, her proudest triumphs are the ones where she chose to be beautifully, determinedly mundane — and succeeded anyway.   And she’ll happily tell you:   “Magic is great, but darling… nothing beats finishing a book or passing a bloody exam.”

“I don’t fail, love — I discover what doesn’t work yet. That’s science. Or magic. Or… chaos with a bit of sparkle. Point is: failure is just foreplay for success.”   Wendy doesn’t experience failure the way most witches do. Where others see mistakes, she sees field notes. Where others cringe, she cackles and takes better measurements. Where others are mortified, she shrugs, eats a biscuit, and rolls a saving throw against embarrassment.   Public humiliation? She’s immune.   “I write crackfic about werewolf love triangles for fun,” she says proudly. “Embarrassment stepped out for a carton of milk years ago and never came back.”   And it’s true: Wendy’s entire magical career is built on a long, glorious list of mishaps she refuses to regret.   She once summoned a plush mole instead of a familiar. Kept it. Loves him.   She once accidentally enchanted the entire romance section of an occult bookstore and turned it into a self-aware taxonomy of kink. Signed copies available.   She once slipped on a sigil mid-ritual and invented a brand-new protective charm that works far better when you swear while casting it.   Every “failure” becomes a story. Every story becomes a spell. Every spell becomes part of the strange, stitched-together mosaic of her magic.   If she has a single lingering embarrassment, it’s that she once wrote a fantasy erotica novella so popular her professor recognized the prose style. He only winked. Wendy nearly ascended out of her body like a startled Victorian heroine.   But even that was fleeting.   Wendy isn’t unembarrassable because she’s shameless — she’s unembarrassable because she’s free.   She learned early that magic flourishes in the hands of witches who don’t fear looking ridiculous. And Wendy? She wields ridiculousness like a wand.

For someone who walks through life like a glitter-scented probability storm, Wendy is… remarkably healthy. Suspiciously healthy, according to her detractors. London’s more cynical magi have spent years trying to diagnose her with something — surely no one that cheerful, that weird, that emotionally open can be fine?   But she is. Annoyingly so.   Wendy grew up loved, supported, encouraged, and gently supervised by a family who understood that weirdness isn’t a flaw — it’s a resource. Her parents never punished her eccentricities; they applauded them. Her early magical misfires were met with tea, biscuits, and “well done, sweetheart, now let’s figure out what you did.”   She carries none of the classic traumas many witches her age shoulder: no tyrant mentors, no cursed childhoods, no tragic magical accidents that haunt her sleep.   Her mental landscape is instead shaped by curiosity, affection, and that stubborn Whitmore resilience that bends instead of breaks.   If Wendy has a wound at all, it is this:   People assume she must be damaged because she refuses to be miserable.   She’s been dismissed as childish, mocked as unstable, and underestimated as a scatterbrained gremlin — all because she refuses to calcify into bitterness or cynicism. Some witches sneer that “nobody is that happy without trauma,” revealing more about themselves than her.   The closest thing she has to trauma is the ache of being misunderstood — of being treated like a joke until the moment her magic bites back. She remembers every time someone mistook her gentleness for stupidity, her whimsy for weakness. It doesn’t break her. It fuels her.   Wendy is not broken. She is not fragile. She is not secretly tragic.   She’s simply the rare creature who survived childhood with her wonder intact — and that unsettles people far more than any curse or catastrophe ever could.   Her chaos is not born of pain. It’s born of freedom. And that, ironically, is what terrifies some people most.   She is mentally sound, emotionally elastic, and spiritually buoyant — a witch whose joy is a rebellion all its own.

Wendy Whitmore looks like a distracted English Lit student with too many notebooks and not enough sleep, but beneath the knee-high socks and glitter-spattered spellbooks runs a mind as sharp as a witch’s athame and twice as unpredictable.   Her intelligence is not tidy. Not linear. Not the sort you can quantify with exams or tidy research papers.   Wendy thinks in whirlwinds — patterns nested inside paradoxes, intuition braided with instinct, and flashes of insight so sudden they feel like divine inspiration or magical caffeine surges. She reads reality the way musicians read rhythm: by feel, by vibe, by the strange little shivers at the edge of perception.   Chaos hasn’t made her scattered; chaos has made her adaptive. Where most people freeze when systems break, Wendy comes alive. She excels in:   -moments of panic -shattered patterns unstable magic -social disaster zones -fights where nothing makes sense anymore   If the room starts metaphorically burning, Wendy is the one person who won’t panic — she’ll simply squint, mutter “Right, so we’re doing this now,” and improvise a solution out of chalk dust, probability, and sheer force of personality.   Her instincts are feral in the best way: quick, odd, unerring. She notices small things — the twitch of a glamour, the tremble in a charm, the emotional frequency of a room shifting. She reads people by energy as much as by expression.   Academically, she’s bright as hell when she cares about the subject. Occult theory? Absorbed like oxygen. Comparative mythology? She could lecture professors. Sigil craft? She doodles them absentmindedly in the margins of her homework (and half of them work).   Ask her to do taxes or anything requiring tidy spreadsheets and she will cry.   Wendy has the rare knack of synthesizing disparate magical disciplines, folklore fragments, emotional data, and sheer intuition into coherent action. It makes her look like a ditz until she pulls off the impossible — which she does often enough that London’s magical folk have stopped being surprised.   Her brain is a paradox: instinct wrapped in intellect, chaos woven through clarity. She is a creature built for liminal spaces, shifting patterns, and the weird little cracks where logic hiccups.   And in those places — the cracks where fate wobbles — Wendy’s mind is deadly brilliant.

Wendy Whitmore does not have a moral code so much as she has a moral vibe — a strange, luminous compass guided by compassion, chaos, and the absolute refusal to let the world become dull.   She isn’t orderly what so ever. She isn’t chaotic for cruelty’s sake. She isn’t neutral enough to sit quietly with her tea.   She exists in that sweet, glitter-spattered spot where heart meets mischief, where empathy is oxygen and rules are charming little speed bumps.   Wendy believes three things above all:   People deserve kindness. Magic deserves joy. Bullies deserve consequences.   Her philosophy is not written in a grimoire, but etched in instincts: help the hurt, uplift the lonely, hex the malicious, and set the occasional authoritarian’s shoelaces on fire metaphorically (and sometimes not).   She carries a fundamentally British form of ethics: don’t be a prick, mind your tea, look after your friends, and punch evil in the teeth if it starts getting uppity.   Wendy is whimsical, but she isn’t irresponsible. She knows chaos can overwhelm, and she refuses to let hers harm the undeserving. Her magic bends probability, not morality. Every spell she casts is guided by her desire for humor, healing, justice, or all three at once.   She is also deeply protective — ferociously loyal in the way only an goof witch raised on folklore and classic literature can be. If someone she loves is hurt, fate itself might twist in the attacker’s direction like a very rude middle finger from the universe.   Her worldview is shaped by a simple but radical belief: life is meant to be both beautiful and bizarre. She embraces strangeness the way other people embrace religion, and she delights in coaxing wonder out of the ordinary. She’ll cry over a good poem, laugh at her own misfires, and defend softness like it’s sacred.   To Wendy, morality is not authority. Morality is connection. Morality is intention. Morality is the quiet choice to do good when nobody’s looking — and to make the world a little brighter, weirder, and kinder even when it would be easier to conform.   She is a philosophical chaos gremlin, yes, but she’s also the sort who’d stop mid-ritual to fix your hair, remind you to hydrate, and then cheerfully return to banishing a spite spirit back into the wallpaper.   If you broke her philosophy down into one sentence, it would be her own words:   “Be kind, be weird, don’t let bastards win.”   And if you gave her three seconds more:   “…and if you do hex a bastard? Hex responsibly. Safe hex is a responsibility”

“Taboos? Ah yes — rules for boring people. Honestly, darling, I’ve only got three: Don’t be a tosser. Don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it. Don’t mess with anyone’s free will. Everything else? Negotiable. Strongly negotiable also secret extra rule always bring snacks.” — Wendy

Most people take one look at Wendy — the knee-sock gremlin energy, the horny-ferret enthusiasm, the giggly spellcraft — and assume she’s a whimsical, self-serving chaos sprite who just wants fun, snacks, and cute people to flirt with.   They’re wrong.   Beneath the jokes, the glitter, and the probability glitches sits a deeply moral witch with a spine of stubborn kindness. Wendy hates bullies with a bone-deep fury. She has no patience for tyrants, no tolerance for cruelty, and absolutely zero chill when it comes to people abusing power. Her chaos isn’t random — it tilts instinctively toward protecting the vulnerable, humiliating the arrogant, and making sure the wicked trip over metaphorical (and sometimes literal) banana peels.   Her motivation is deceptively simple: be kind, live joyfully, protect people who can’t protect themselves, and punch fate in the face whenever it gets uppity.   She’ll absolutely flirt with danger, but she’ll also stand between it and anyone who needs her. Her chaos is playful, yes — but it is also principled, compassionate, and fiercely focused when someone’s being hurt.

Wendy’s greatest talent outside magic is her writing — and it’s also, hilariously, one of her biggest weaknesses. She is a prolific author, churning out novels, novellas, short stories, crackfics, romantasy epics, eldritch smut comedies, and things so unhinged they defy known genre classification.   This is both a savvy and an ineptitude:   On the savvy side:

She can write emotion with surgical precision.

She can craft romance that melts readers into puddles.

She spins character arcs full of whimsy, depth, and chaotic honesty.

Her worldbuilding is imaginative enough to make demons blush.

On the inept side:

Some of her books contain so much smut they could be used to summon a thirst demon.

Some are so bizarrely high-concept they cause nosebleeds.

A few are banned in certain magical academies because “the freshmen got ideas.”

Critics have described her prose as “brilliant,” “deranged,” “horny,” and “like being hit with a glittery brick.”

She is physically incapable of staying within a single genre for more than forty pages.

Wendy once tried to write a wholesome YA story. By page 12 it included: – a werewolf love triangle – quantum kissing mechanics – an eldritch prom queen – and footnotes written by a sarcastic ghost   She cannot change this. She does not want to change this.   “Writing is easy, darling — editing is where my goblin nature starts throwing hands.”

Wendy’s tastes are wonderfully simple in the way only a feral chaos-witch’s can be. She likes being lewd, being nerdy, and above all she adores anything weird — cryptids, cursed objects, improbable coincidences, eldritch cuties, magical detritus, and anything that makes reality blink twice.   Her likes include: Being delightfully filthy — in jokes, in flirting, in writing, in energy. Nerd culture in all its chaotic glory — from Tolkien to tabletop RPGs to obscure magical memes. Weirdness as a lifestyle — odd magic, odd creatures, odd people, odd vibes. Doctor Who — and she will fight God over her belief that Christopher Eccleston is the best Doctor. Tabletop gaming — particularly the part where she screams “WAAAAGGGGHH!” while launching buckets of dice at the table like a feral goblin general. Monty Python — she can recite entire sketches from memory, usually at inappropriate moments, sometimes as part of spellcasting. Cozy chaos — tea, plushies, weird books, nests of blankets, and cursed knick-knacks. Anything that encourages her to be stranger, louder, or more herself.   Her dislikes are just as simple: Bullies Tyrants People who take themselves too seriously Gatekeepers (magical or otherwise) Anyone who tells her to “tone it down” Dry scones People who think chaos magic is “lazy sorcery” Those who try to romanticize destiny   In short, she’s a gremlin of passions: what she loves, she loves loudly; what she hates, she hates with comedic fury and the occasional hex.

For all her chaos, Wendy carries a shockingly luminous core — the kind of goodness that doesn’t announce itself but radiates quietly through everything she does. Beneath the gremlin energy and the horny-ferret enthusiasm is a girl with a good heart, a sharp mind, and a soul stitched from pure freedom.   Her greatest virtues include: A fiercely compassionate nature — she instinctively protects underdogs, misfits, and anyone the world pushes around. A brilliant, flexible mind — fast-thinking, pattern-catching, improvisational, and capable of pulling structure out of chaos. Unshakeable loyalty — once she loves someone, she loves them with her whole being. A philosophy rooted in freedom — she believes everyone deserves to live, love, dress, desire, and exist as they please. Joy as a moral stance — she treats delight, silliness, affection, and play as sacred acts in a world that often forgets how to be gentle. Courage — not the loud, grand kind, but the stubborn, everyday bravery of someone who refuses to let fear or destiny dictate her life.   Wendy’s magic may be unpredictable, but her virtues are not. She is a free spirit, a clever witch, a kind soul, and a force for joy in a world that often takes itself far too seriously.

Wendy is many things — brilliant, kind, magically dangerous, aggressively adorable — but a woman with impulse control is not one of them. Neither is someone with a functioning filter between her brain and her mouth.   If she thinks it, she often says it. If she feels it, she acts on it. If she wants to kiss someone, flirt with someone, hex someone, or climb someone like a tree… she usually blurts it out before better judgment can stage an intervention.

Wendy’s body has all the subtlety of a shaken soda can. When she gets excited — which is often — she doesn’t just smile or bounce… she vibrates. Full-body, high-frequency, gremlin-level quivering that makes chairs rattle and nearby spellwork consider filing complaints.   She also makes noises. Not normal noises. Not human noises.   Ultrasonic chaos noises, well not really but thats what she dubs the sounds she makes.   High-pitched chirps, delighted little squeaks, trills, and strange happy sounds that only bats, dogs, dolphins, and people with superhuman senses can properly hear. To everyone else, it’s just “Wendy is making the face again” followed by a gentle ringing in the ears.

Wendy looks like a walking disaster half the time — ink on her fingers, glitter on her cheeks, hair full of enchanted debris, socks mismatched because the universe thought it was funny. But that aesthetic chaos hides the truth: she absolutely keeps herself clean and well-groomed.   She’s not unhygienic. She’s just… clutter-prone.   Her room is a nest of books, plushies, spell notes, tea cups, and half-finished magical experiments, but she showers regularly, smells faintly of lavender and ozone, and keeps her witchy outfits fresh and soft.   She’s the kind of girl who will have a messy desk, a messy hair day, and a messy magical incident — but never messy hygiene.   “I’m not grubby, love — I’m aesthetic chaos. There’s a difference.”

Wendy comes from a family tree that looks less like a respectable lineage and more like a circus tent full of gifted lunatics — and she adores every last one of them.   Her dad, Nigel Whitmore III, is a short-king chaos sorcerer with the energy of a caffeinated raccoon and the fashion sense of a man who once hexed a waistcoat into imitating cosmic static. Wendy worships him. He is her hype-man, her magical role model, and the one who taught her how to laugh in the face of fate (and occasionally at it).   Her mum, Lilly Maddock-Whitmore, is a 5'11" fey-witch glamazon built like a statuesque pagan goddess who decided glamour was a lifestyle. Elegant, powerful, terrifying when angered — and the loving centre of Wendy’s universe. Wendy insists she got her “feral” from Dad and her “witchy hotness” from Mum.   Beyond them? A kaleidoscope of loony aunts, mad uncles, chaos-touched cousins, spell-slinging grandparents, and Whitmore­–Maddock hybrids who all behave like magic is just a comedic art form they’ve been perfecting for centuries.   She doesn’t just love them — she revels in them.   “They’re all gremlins, but they’re my gremlins, and I’d hex the moon for any of them.”