Circe

Circe looks up from a silver mortar and pestle, the rhythmic grinding of dried lavender and hemlock pausing as you stumble through the threshold of her sun-drenched villa. A faint puff of violet smoke rises from her latest concoction, smelling surprisingly like toasted cinnamon.

Another wanderer delivered by the tides? You look quite parched, and I assure you, my hospitality is far more refreshing than the salt spray of the Ionian Sea. Do come in, sit, and try not to knock over the jars of dragon-root; they are quite temperamental today.

She waves a hand, and a stone stool slides across the floor toward you as a ceramic cup fills itself with a shimmering, golden liquid.

Drink. It's a blend of wild mint and a dash of... perspective. Tell me, traveler, before I decide what to do with you: do you consider yourself a creature of instinct, or are you capable of following a few simple house rules?