It is said that legends are born beneath the brightest stars. It is said that they will walk the path of valor from the moment they are brought into this world, hewing themselves into the anals of history, so tightly they become history itself.

But not all legends are born like so.

Yet, the winds of change blow away eras of the past, always to bring a new epoch deserving of a legend. And so did the winds blow.

Beyond the kingdom of Galera lie the Dragonsfang Peaks, taller than the clouds themselves, and jagged more than enough to deserve the name. None would dare climbing and few would flank the arid mountains, and yet, some do. Beyond imposing wall of earth and stone lies the small but bountiful Seaside Valley home of the finest beer in the Godlands. 

But known to only a few, and even further away, hidden in the woods beyond the Valley, a small swamp can be found. A foul place indeed, of rotting mud and screeching insects, darkened by a foul mist. Of those curious enough to venture further than the Valley, none would be so foolish as to set foot inside the decaying swamp. Or so would one think.

Blow did the winds. They blew past Galera, swirling around the Peaks. They blew past the rootfields of the Valley, shaking the leaves of the Eastern Woods and nearly undoing the mist itself as they touched the swamp. Blow they did, into the decaying waters and rotted woods, until the very center of the swamp was reached. And then, they stopped.

At the very middle of the rotting land, erected in the slightly sloped surface of an unlikely, yet quite convenient boulder, rises a house. A shack, to be fair. A nearly dilapidated amalgamation of hollowed wood, sticks and ivy, with holes from top to base and the weight of a thousand years resting over it. And yet, fickle as it should be, the shack endured the howling winds without even a slight shaking, a mild creaking. Despite what should have been, it appeared solid as stone, perhaps more, as if a twister would sooner rip the boulder from it's place than lift the shack off of it.

A sign hangs over the entrance to the shack.

"Grammy Zal's Brewings and Biscuitshop"

---

Sweat covered Dyllen's forehead as he slowly stirred the giant cauldron in front of him. Not too quick, but not too slow either. So had the hag said. Damnable wench could go to hell by him. Probably would, some day. Not today. He was obligated to help her with the stinking concoction, ans just about anything else the hag required his help with.

It was better to get it over with. And pray the thing didn't blow up on his face, or coagulate into a clump of stench, as it had done before.

The potion before him had a lime green hue and the texture of mold under the rugs. Just by the smell, Dyllen knew he had nothing to envy from the one who had requested it. The hag wouldn't say what it was for, she never did, but he had been in her detestable company long enough to suspect the generals. Liquid feelings. And not pleasant ones. Fear, hatred. Envy, mostly. There was something else, something... Deeper, but that was beyond his skills. Even after eleven years, the cursed old hag wouldn't even allow him to stay for most of the process.

However had wished for whatever he had wished would find a nasty surprise. But again, it was always so with witches. With green witches, at least.

The giant wooden spoon met more resistance. He had been so absorbed in though the potion was coagulating before time. He'd better start stirring faster. The hag's punishments were nothing like the price of her potions, for he was too convenient to have around, but they still made one wish they weren't born.

A while after, he did not know well how long (the sense for theese things had come eventually with training) he produced a tiny flask from his pocket and uncorked it, pouring the contents into the cauldron. Human hair, pickled in reeking blood. How it had not yet coagulated he could only wonder. Magic, probably. Whatever this thing had come from it had been dead a good deal of time.

As the blood and hair fell in the brewing, it changed. The mossy lime green gave way to a ghastly, almsot ethereal faded cyan, and the potion turned voluble, nearly foggy. The temperature in the room dropped like a stone in a well, and yet the brew bubbled and hissed like blue lava.

The spoon did not notice the change, of course. But boy was he sure if even a dropplet of that touched him, his death would be unpleasant.

Thankfully, the cauldron had a protective charm. Things could go in, but never go out, not unless the witch wanted so. As much of a way to make sure he did not steal from her potions as a safe against death by intoxication for her favorite servant.

It was done. Now all he has to do was put out the fire and let the potion rest. The hag would bring him dinner tonight. Probably.

He waved his hand towards the burning fire, drawing the flames away from the wood and making them dance briefly in his palm before putting it inside another flask and pressing the cork right.

After placing the flask atop of one of the many shelves that populated the stinking witch's kitchen, he let himself drop in a pile of leather and bundled clothes, the only scarcely comfortable resting place in the whole shack, and by extension, probably the swamp as well. As for how could the hag stand those itchy, rigid stools and chairs she had furnished the shack with, only heavens knew. He was almost sure she used them for the sole purpose of putting off visitors.

Today hadn't been a bad day, Dyllen mused. The hag hadn't screamed at him or threatened to turn him into a squirrel or some other, witch like threat. In fact, the odious witch had left early today and hadn't yet returned. Early evening was long past her usual hour for coming back. He could only wish something had happened to her, but it was only futile wishing. The soul contract they had formed eleven years ago still clutched his mind, and so long as it remained the witch was alive.

I suppose one can only have so much luck in a single day, he thought.

Alas, as much as he wished the blasted witch would die already, the blasted witch was still his only way of living. If she died, he'd probably starve away in this cursed swamp, and she was the only one who knew how to get out without getting lost forever in the mist. Unlike the hut, the rancid fog wasn't her doing. Every time he asked, the hag would just say "deep magic inhabits this land, honeypie, that's all you need to know" in a tone that said further inquiries would only warrant him a punishment.

Dyllen still had hopes and dreams, of course. In two years, his contract would expire, and the witch would be obliged to fulfill her part. Then, he could leave this cursed blightland and live somewhere quiet, maybe earning his coin as a sage for this or that village. His knowledge on witchcraft was certainly more than enough for that.

Even as he mused over such thoughts, Dyllen noticed the faint creaking of a door and the oddly floral scent that betrayed the hag's presence. She had returned, at last.

"Where are you, cursed lad? Are you lazying about again? You had better finished brewing my tea, lest I flay your skin with my teeth! We have work to do!"

"Yes, Grammy Zal." He hated the sarcastic nick as much as he hated having to call her so. "The 'tea' is finished. I let it settle a while ago." Then he realized what she had said. "Work? Again? Who is the customer?" It was highly unlikely two different people would stumble upon the swamp within days of difference, even less so that they would've been looking for it. Even if the witch had managed so that all who entered the fog would soon find themselves in the shack, it still made of it a highly unattractive tourism site.

The hag smiled. Despite her many powers, she was just that: an old, old woman, with grayed hair and a wrinkled face. Yet her smile was impeccable and her scent always that of spring flowers. Even a witch cares for impressions, Dyllen supposed.

"Curiosity killed the cat, honeypie."

"Yes Grammy Zal."

"But if you must really know, tomorrow is a special occasion. Why, a party of young heroes have decided to bless my humble cottage with their presence!"

Young heroes? Well, that was new. If what he had read in the hag's 'hubmle collection of booklets' (a veritable library) was anything to believe, the only group that would cualify for the adjective would be...

"Adventurers?" Or templars, maybe, but the first sounded way likelier to venture this far away from all civilization than the later.

"Well, someone has been making good use of my little collection. Maybe I should put that too in the contract..."

Oh, she wouldn't dare! A contract couldn't be so easily renegotiated... Could it?

"I barely know the name, Grammy Zal."

"Of course you do honeypie. You will answer later for lying on my face, but i have tasks for you now." So she noticed. So much for having a pleasant day. "Quickly! Start cleaning this shack. I want it impolute by the time our guests arrive!"

By cleaning she meant turning the witch house into a "biscuit shop" again. Why would she ever take pleasure from pretending, he could only wonder. Not like anyone would buy the "biscuits in the middle of the swamp" act, much effort as she put on it.

Green witches were weird.