The old crone added one more spoonful of powder — what it was he could not begin to guess — and began to stir the evil-smelling concoction delicately, taking care not to spill or splash.
“I grow impatient, woman.”
She answered the adventurer, without looking away from the cauldron, “great care must be taken. This cannot be rushed if the desired effect you seek. The mix must be perfect.”
“My glorious victory is within my grasp, yet I sit here watching you stir, crone.”
She inhaled the brew’s noxious odor. Not quite right, yet. “Not to worry, Alaeron: the dragon will wait.”
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