Bubbles the cauldron. Cackles the woman. Purrs the cat. Whispers the wind.

Ahh… a pinch of this.

A bit of that.

A stir here-

Now add this.

The woman in her tavern, surrounded by the murky waters and leaping frogs. She whispers and mumbles jumbled words as she sits at the pot, watching the purple mixture bubble and churn like a storm on edge.

The cat sits, eyeing her skeptically as she babies her mixture, combining herbs and spices grown in a dark room at the back of the tavern.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says the cat in a deep voice.

“Ha, mmm… she- Ooh,” the old woman mumbles incoherent words, hobbling over to the cat and scratching its black fur.

She returns to her cauldron, stirring the mixture and turning it over into different jars and glasses.

“This… eh.. mmh, sure,” she says as the sun sets, the light retreating from her tavern on the water.

The old lady turns into a beautiful young woman, the cat turns into her lover, the jars turn into their dinner, it’s a routine cover.

When night falls, beasts of all shapes and sizes roam, looking for something old, frail and worn. Something known as the witch who lives in a tavern on the water.