Above the fire is a cauldron, filled with some unidentifiable liquid. And standing beside the cauldron, hunched over with a staff in hand, is a wrinkled old woman busily tossing items into the cauldron. It looks like the most cliché scene imaginable...but it couldn't be, right? After all, there is no such thing as real...witches? In disbelief, you begin to back away. However, at that instant, the old crone taps the floor with her staff.
Your attempted exit is brought up short when you find yourself unable to retreat, your feet rooted to the floor. Looking down, you find it is literal. Roots have actually come out of the stone floor, and are holding your legs in place. For a moment, it doesn't register. Then the adrenaline kicks in, and you desperately try to pull your right foot out, using your left foot as leverage.
"There's no point," the hag says flatly, not even bothering to look at you, continuing to drop items in the cauldron, having practically ignored you to this moment. "You've crossed over, there's no way back."
"Now, now, there's no need to be so harsh with the young miss, it's obvious she meant no harm," a male voice pops up from near your feet, startling you and causing you to fall on your backside with a yelp, your feet still stuck in place. Stupefied, you stare around your legs to get a look at the speaker.