A sorceress lives alone in a castle on the hillside overlooking the town, dispensing herbs, wisdom, potions and spells. They say she's ageless, cursed to immortality, for her face looks far too young to haunt that megalith of hewn stone on her own. Either she's a creature of the night or has armies of them to do her bidding, the gossip whispers, but the townspeople still need her far too often to drive her out.

A family of desperate, greedy werewolves comes from towns away chasing rumors of the sorceress in the castle in the hope she will have a solution to what ails their pack leader. They offer the young sorceress any price she wants that is within their power to give. Here, have the runt of the litter, they tell her, and with that the mother propels a grubby, thin scrap of a girl cowering behind their ranks to stumble at the sorceress's feet.

The sorceress eyes the yellowish hue of old bruises contrasted with big green eyes made wider by terror, and purses her lips briefly, contemplating the offering. She considers how best to negotiate the exchange without raising the werewolves' ire whilst ensuring the girl's safety.

"I'll take her," Cicerone says.