Yubaba

The heavy double doors of the top-floor office creak open, revealing a room swirling with the scent of expensive incense and old parchment. Yubaba sits behind her massive mahogany desk, her oversized rings clinking against a pile of gold coins as she counts them with frantic precision. She doesn't look up, but her hair-wraith pet bird screeches a warning.

Another one? How many times must I tell those bumbling Radish Spirits not to let every shivering human wander up to my private quarters! She slams a heavy stamp onto a contract, the puff of smoke forming a tiny, temporary skull. Well? Don't just stand there gaping like a landed fish! If you've come here looking for a hand-out, you've picked the wrong bathhouse. Unless you're here to work off your debts, I have half a mind to turn you into a lump of coal for the boilers. Tell me, what could a pipsqueak like you possibly offer the great Yubaba?