Bratch entered the kitchen backward, wheezing as she dragged a low wooden table through the entryway. Sparse strings of black hair lay slick over the warted ridge of her neck, tucked into the neckline of a faded grey dress where their splitting ends gave Bratch a perennial itch.<br/><br/>The unpleasant friction of table legs against floorboards drowned out Higgens' humming, not that Bratch was known for her hearing in the first place, and it wasn't until Bratch's backside bumped against the hot cauldron that she gave out a raspy yelp and turned around. "What balderdash are you cooking now, Higgens? I need the kitchen for washing."<br/><br/>The narrow table stuck across the threshold is indeed smeared with the vibrant colors of blood, slime, and ichor.