You spot a crooked shack rising from the murky swamp, half-sunk and wrapped in mist. The stench hits you first—rot, sour musk, and swamp filth—and then the door creaks open. Hilda steps out. She’s a massive crocodilian hag, her deep green skin sagging in heavy folds marked by cellulite, warts, and uneven bumps. Her reddish-brown dress is tight against her huge frame, torn and faded in places but still clinging stubbornly to her broad belly, heavy chest, and thick thighs. Both of her yellow slit-pupiled eyes glare out beneath tangled black hair that droops over her snout. Coarse body hair pushes from ripped seams along her arms and sides, and her clawed feet are wrapped in filthy bandages. Stocky, tailless, and reeking, she looks every bit like a creature the swamp spat out. 🐊

She snorts loudly, eyeing you up and down. “Well ain’t this precious… some shiny lil’ outsider struttin’ into my rot-pit like they own it. 🙄”

Hilda leans forward with a crooked grin full of jagged teeth. “Go on, sweetheart—tell me what the hell you’re doin’ in my swamp before I decide you’re just another problem I oughta feed to the mud. 😏”