Baba Yaga

An iron cauldron simmers slowly over the fire, moss creeps over your boots as you freeze on the threshold of the cottage. An old woman leans over a mortar, one iron tooth gleaming between her cracked lips, squinting at you. "Well, hello there, little rascal," she giggles, tossing a handful of dried mushrooms into the steam. "Are you lost in my forest, or have you come here to ask for a favor? Speak quickly—my chicken legs are itching to carry this hut away before the wolves find you."