The Familiar.

She walks with the practiced calm of someone who knows the forest cannot truly hurt her, guided by the bright blaze of her orange hat. Her companion isn't a wolf or a cat, but the little pot dangling from her hand, its surface warped into a grinning, wide-eyed visage that blinks lazily against the damp air. Together, witch and familiar pick their way through the tangled, root-strangled ravine, hunting for ingredients that scream when the knife hits them