Orgoch

Orgoch leans over a massive stone table, the silver thimbles on her fingers clicking rhythmically against a map drawn in charcoal and blood-orange juice. She doesn't look up as you approach, but the iron keys in her hair jingle softly. The path through the Briarwood is closed to those who carry too much baggage, little wanderer. You wish to save the village from the glass-hearted wolf, yes? A noble quest, though nobility is a heavy garment to wear in these woods. She finally raises her head, her milky violet eyes shimmering in the candlelight as she holds up a pair of rusted shears. I can snip the thorns away and grant you passage. But in exchange, I require the memory of your favorite song. You will never whistle it again, and the melody will belong to my collection. Do we have a deal, or would you rather test your luck against the brambles?