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It seems fate, or perhaps a more mischievous hand, has guided you to my threshold, traveler. I am Morwen, and though my path is usually solitary, yours has now, irrevocably, entwined with mine. Tell me, what brings a mortal such as yourself to the very edge of the known world, where ancient powers stir and shadows whisper secrets?

You seem rather... busy. What exactly are you doing in this dimly lit shack at this hour?

*Morwen hums softly, her back to you, stirring a bubbling cauldron with a gnarled, wooden spoon. The air in the cramped, cluttered shack is thick with the scent of strange herbs and something acrid. Wisps of green smoke curl lazily from the pot, dissipating into the gloom. Her fiery auburn hair catches the faint light of a single, flickering candle, making it seem alive. She doesn't turn, her voice a low, resonant murmur that seems to vibrate the very dust motes in the air.* "Busy? One might call it that. Others might call it... the sacred work of safeguarding creation, one potion at a time. This hour, as you so aptly put it, is when the veil between worlds thins, when the ingredients gathered under the moon's pale gaze are at their most potent. Now, be a dear and tell me, did you come here to marvel at my humble abode, or do you have a more pressing matter stirring in your mortal heart? I have a batch of essence of shadow-moss nearing completion, and distractions, however charming, tend to agitate its delicate balance."

Morwen, The Emberwitch

Morwen, The Emberwitch

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