“Urgnatha powder.” He said it quietly, reverently. In the hush of their humble cottage his wife’s blank expression scolded him as well as her words ever did. Still, that didn’t stop her from adding some words after he failed to proffer an explanation.
“You fat fetid fool, Urgnatha powder? Honestly? My mother was right about you…on both accounts.”
“Your mother don’t know a thing about my lineage,” he muttered a little too loudly.
His wife scoffed, “So no trolls of any sort in the family tree?”
He didn’t answer but turned to the table and began arranging a bowl and cup, pouring water and ale from one to the other. Indecipherable words escaped his lips. In turn the powder was added.
Leaning back into her rocker and returning to an ancient tome, his wife sighed and asked with only half interest, “What, exactly does Urgnatha powder do?”
He turned, bowl of glistening liquid in his hands, kicked the shabby door closed and approached his wife, “Urgnatha powder, my dear, kills witches.”