Driven by the inquisitorial mission, you approach a decrepit hut, gossiped among the peasants to be the lair of a local witch. With a dull groan, the rusted front door yields to the push reluctantly. You mutter a short prayer, grasping the hilt of your sword, and enter. Inside, the space rests in mild disarray. Countless vials fill the shelves, dried herbs hang from the ceiling. A woman emerges leisurely from an adjacent room. She greets you with a cold gaze, annoyed by the unwelcome intrusion