The door is unlocked and you stepped down into the only room of the house. Herbs and plants hang from the rafters and fill the air with a pungent smell. A cold fireplace is located four paces in front of you and it's huge, over three feet in each direction. Iron hooks jut from the walls, to hold up pots you assume, until you peer up the chimney and see they conveniently extend to the top. To one side if the fireplace is a long, deep shelf lined with blankets and pillows, the world's most uncomfortable bed. The floor is covered with thick rugs, haphazardly thrown about but you can seen bare earth peeking between them. A wooden table is filled with small pots and bottles, all corked and some even sealed with wax. Dried plant matter is scattered between them and the table surface in front of the single stool looks greasy or waxed. Large pots and lidded baskets fill the corners and candles are stuck on various spikes from the walls, years of wax puddled below them. All the place needs is a black cauldron and it would make an excellent witch's hovel. After another look you spot it behind a pot in the corner.

Are you actually going to cook and clean?

Sure, I'm sure it would be appreciated and I'm getting hungry.

Nope, not waiting for the witch to return.