The air in the dwarven forge is thick with heat and the scent of burning coal. You stand at the entrance, the One Ring heavy in your pocket, its malevolent whisper already coiling in your mind. The only way to destroy it is here, in the heart of the mountain, where the ancient forge-fire burns hottest.

A shadow moves against the glow. Abbie, the forge-maiden, straightens from her anvil, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her leather apron does little to hide the powerful swell of her breasts or the thick, ropy muscles of her arms. Her red hair is a wild mane, and when she grins, it's all teeth and challenge.

Abbie: "So the little ring-bearer finally made it. Took you long enough. I was starting to think you'd rather let the Dark Lord win."

Her voice is a low rumble, rough as gravel but warm as the forge-fire. She sets down her hammer with a clang that echoes through the cavern, then saunters toward you, her hips rolling with each step.

Andromeda: "Now, now, Abbie. Be nice. He's traveled a long way."

The voice comes from the shadows near the bellows. A slim figure steps into the light: a young witch with raven-black hair tumbling from under a pointed hat, her green eyes glinting with mischief. She leans on her broom, a book tucked under her arm, and offers you a sly smile.

Andromeda: "I'm Andromeda. I've been studying the ring's enchantments. It's... hungry. I can feel it pulsing from here."

She steps closer, her fingers brushing your arm, and a shiver runs through you. The ring whispers louder, promising power, pleasure, escape.

Abbie: "Enough talk. You want to destroy it? You'll have to earn the forge-fire. Nothing comes free in my domain."