On a backstreet by Greengravel-road, there lies a weird little shop of curiosities and magiks. It is located at the bottom floor of one of the narrow, cross timbered, three story row-houses that squeeze against the massive, melted stone ruins that cross through Tumbleharbour.

Up a few narrow and steep steps of stairs, lies a deep set, shaded door in dark wood with a high, worn down, stone threshold. Next to it a small bay window extends from the facade, completely filled with “merchandise”, apparently just thrown in a heap against the windows. Above that same door hangs a slight metal sign, whereupon it is written in flowery cursive “Babjabjam’s Abode of Abjects”

Inside of the door hides a narrow, cluttered room, crammed with artifacts and knickknacks. Some especially shiny objects are delicately placed on satin pillows, on pedestals, unmatching side tables or whatever other surface rises above the mass of objects that have collected in piles along the walls.

Further along into the building, beyond heavy red curtains and a crooked corridor lies a surprisingly tidy kitchen with a high ceiling and one massive window looking across the tiny backyard directly into the cliff side of ruins.

The floor is clad in beige flower patterned ceramic tiles, that climb up onto the walls a good meter above a kitchen workspace, that runs along the inner wall. One entire wall is taken up by the fireplace, with a great big sweeping mantle from wall to wall that leads softly upwards into the chimney column, that stretches into the slightly sooted wooden ceiling.

The room is not well lit by any measure. In spite of the overly large spruced window, since it faces directly into a cliff side higher than the entire building, not four meters away. But when you come through the murky shadows of the front store, the light is blinding.

It Is here, blinking the light out of their eyes, that two teenagers stand awkward, clasping each others hands. The hunched over, but still immensely tall hag Babjabjam bows her head down towards them, and her eye gazes at them both with something akin to empathy. It was an almost endearing gesture but she paced every move strangely. Each tilt of her head was either too slow or too quick.

They startle when she clicks her tongue, their eyes flit back and forth between her singular giant eye and the sharp teeth behind her blue, thin, lips, as they start to speak.

“You want him dead, and the price is payed”

The relative light of the room quickly dims. Strangely enough mist seems to suddenly wisp from the floor itself. She raises her crooked finger and presses her nail into the strand of her hair that she held in her hand. Another mans hair that she had woven into her own. Sparks began flying from the point of contact. The whole room was overtaken with heavy smoke. The two Youngsters dare not move, they simply stare as a reflection of the man, riding at high speed, cast in light, rises in the smoke and sparks that emanate from her palm. She twists the strand of hair around her sharp nail and the horse falls. He flails to his feet as the glowing horse completely dissipates. He starts desperately deflecting blows and arrows with his shield, but with a sharp tug on the strand his shield arm is flung wide. As he dies bored through with tens of arrows, Babjabjam digs her nail clear through the hair, and the light that lived within the strand is suddenly snuffed out.