A heavy metal mace was not quite the optimal tool to smash through the door (an axe would have been handier), but it got the job done – eventually. Boudica smashed upon the door, again and again and again, until her arms were sore. But with each loud ‘thud’, the heavy wood started to give way, splintering under her blows. Finally, the door yielded; the wood buckled, and the entire frame gave way, creaking as it sagged inward.
Almost immediately, a wave of foul, humid air rolled out of the room.
The den inside was filthy. The ‘bed’ in the far corner of the room was basically a lump of rotting meat, crawling with so much maggots it looked like it was in motion. The floor around it was stained dark with grease, and the stink was overpowering. There were plates, bowls, pots and pans littering the room, some piled with scraps of meat, others picked down to the bone. None of them have ever been washed.
There were tattered garments scattered everywhere, most of them soaked with grime. A table at the center, overflowing with collected junk, had a grotesque, warty, bulbously toad sitting a top of it, right next to a melted candle. The toad doesn’t blink. It just watches you, even as the swarm of flies buzz around it.
The witch herself, however, is nowhere to be seen.
What do you do?
