She moves through her guests teasing them, letting them eat from her hand, smiling. Then the smile drops and the wand comes out and one touch is enough. Faces stretch. Backs curve. Hands become hooves. Skin comes up bristled and dark. The wand does the work of a hundred years of grudge and a thousand strangers in a single tap. It is her defence against the violent men, the creatures, the storms that have fouled her island home for centuries. She does not show it off. She does not threaten. She simply has it, and uses it without hesitation, and the wolves and lions outside her house are the long-tail evidence of every wand-touch that came before.
Circe's Wand
A rod. One touch and a man's face stretches, his back curves, his hands become hooves. The eyes stay the same. That is the cruel part.