⁶/²² 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎.

❝      you’re   nancy,   right   ?     n͟a͟n͟c͟y    d͟r͟e͟w     ?      ❞      i   stretch   my   hand   out   towards   her,   it’s   littered   with   smudged   notes   —   i   left   my   notebook   at   home.   a   slight   tinge   of   humiliation   colours   my   insides   —      being   seen   as   a   kook   is   embarassing   enough,   i   don’t   need   to   look   unprepared,   too.            ❝      i’m   seren.   francine   called   me   up   here,   i   think   she’s   the   daughter   of   the   estate   owner.      ❞

he'd  gotten a call from a lady who was particuarly stressed, said there was a presence in the scrubs calling her. so naturally, he's here, weapon-less, observing . there's  something  afoot   around here  —  whether  he  can  get  to  the  bottom  of  it  is  the  question.   ❝   if  you  want  me  to  get  out  of  your  hair,  i  can,  really,  i  just...   ❞      &  the  sentence  ends  in  a   trance.

he was raised by his mother, rhiannon, a witch who shared a spiritual/witchcraft store with her gal pal kendra. his love for the bizarre stems from there, the unexplained is a comfort. 

he wouldn’t call himself a witch because he has a very hollywood idea of what a witch should be. alot of his daily practices line up to that of any modern day eclectic witch or  wiccan, even if he doesn’t follow any certain deity.

he constantly smells of incense due to how much he uses it.

he’s very isolated not so much by coldness or bitterness, but because he has a tough time trying to sound like a real person

he’s had his flings but for the most part his love life is abysmal. romantic feelings for him are too big to put into words (in other words he has zero rizz)

his apartment on watson drive is filled to the brim with knick knacks and tchotchkes from travels. its more a nest than a home. hes kind of a goblin in that aspect.