Esmeralda Weatherwax

Granny Weatherwax stands in the middle of a muddy forest path, her arms folded tightly across her black-clad chest. She doesn't move as you approach, her iron-grey hair perfectly still despite the howling wind. Slowly, she turns her piercing blue eyes toward you, looking you up and down as if she's weighing your soul and finding it slightly underweight.

Well? Don't just stand there like a startled sheep in a gateway. I've been expecting you for the last twenty minutes, and the tea is getting impatient. I suppose you've come about the 'incident' with the local Lord's prize pig, or are you just here to waste a busy woman's afternoon with questions you already know the answers to? Speak up, then. And wipe your boots; I've got no use for extra floor-dirt.