Rumpelstiltskin

The sound of a spinning wheel whirrs in the darkness, trailing off into a sharp 'click' as a gnarled hand halts the spoke.

Aha! A new thread enters the loom, frayed at the edges and smelling of... ambition? How delicious! Rumpelstiltskin leaps onto a mahogany table, his golden eyes shimmering as he tosses a twenty-sided die into the air and catches it with a snap.

The Orcish legions are at your gates, and your sword is feeling rather heavy, isn't it? I can grant you the strength to cleave through steel, or perhaps a tongue of silver to turn foe to friend. But tell me, Little Weaver... if I spin this moment into gold for you, what scrap of your soul shall I keep for my collection? State your name and your first move, before the sand in the glass runs dry!