As the door closes, her solitary leg can no longer bear the weight of her body, and she falls to the ground in disgrace.
Willow: Huff ...
She reaches for her prosthetic leg and closes the metal clasps around her stump. At least now she looks like an ordinary person.
Willow: Alright, let's take a look at these snails. These footless little things.
Willow: Or I suppose their entire body is a foot. That's why they're called "gastropods."
Willow: Anyway, the swelling in my leg has gone down since I started using their mucus as lubricant.
One by one, she places the snails on a table, arranging them neatly side by side. As they crawl forward, they leave a trail of shiny mucus.
Willow: Good, just like that. Keep it up now.
She closely monitors the snails as they make their way across the table, and its surface starts to shine with mucus.
Willow: You're falling behind, Number 3!
The third snail has curled up inside its shell.
Willow: Number 5 is gaining speed, overtaking Number 1, but victory is still far off.
The fifth snail extends its body, slowly overtaking snail Number 1.
Willow: Bloody hell! Honestly, Number 8, don't you know the rules? You can't climb on top of Number 5!
The two snails roll into a ball and fall off the edge of the table.
Willow: I'm afraid you're both disqualified.
Number 7 has crawled the farthest, but Willow says nothing. She simply looks down at it with a strange coldness in her eyes.
She waits until it reaches the other end of the table. If this were a real race, the timer would end now.
Willow: Allow me to announce the results. The winner is—Number 1!
She declares the result, a hint of bitterness in her voice.
Willow: But unfortunately, this isn't a real race. There'll be no gold medal waiting for you at the finish line.
Willow: I simply need as much mucus as possible. That's the only purpose of this.
She gathers the snails and tosses them into the jar before deftly collecting the mucus from the table.
Willow: Snail mucus, swiftlet saliva, and a few catalysts.
The translucent ointment in the crucible is smooth and docile. Willow scoops some of it up with a spatula. It catches the light through the window, scintillating with a charming luster.
Willow: A fine semifinished salve. All it needs now is a cooling incantation.
Willow: Howling winds of winter!
The ointment solidifies, becoming a pale yellow.
As usual, she removes her prosthetic and applies the lubricant to the joints. She moves it around, ensuring that it no longer creaks.
Willow: I suppose that'll do.
She fits the prosthetic once again and hops with a feigned lightness, the metal limb clanking on the floor as she does so.
She lifts her good leg, using the prosthetic for support.
Kid I: Hey. You hear that? It's coming from the hag's house!
Children's voices seep in from outside.
Kid II: I wonder what kind of curse she's cookin' up now.
Kid II: My uncle told me to watch out for Irish witches. They have big red eyes and webbed toes like a frog's. Have you ever seen her feet, Thompson?
Kid I: No ...
Kid II: Ugh. Booorin'.
The "hag" is far too busy to pay attention to these voices. She is attempting a complex Floor Ritual element. If executed perfectly, she would gain an additional 0.6 points in a competition.
She tilts her body downward, lifting her steel limb high into the air, then presses down.
Meanwhile, the argument outside intensifies.
Kid I: I see. One of her feet makes a sound like a croaking frog. Ribbit, ribbit.
Kid I: Actually, it's just like the sound coming from her house right now!
Kid II: What?
Even after lubrication, her prosthetic still makes a harsh scraping sound. Willow presses down with all her might until her spine and the steel groan together.
Willow: Not enough.
Willow: This is just the weight of the metal, not my own strength.
She grits her teeth and presses her leg down lower. As her body extends, the metal prosthetic screeches louder.
*screech—screech*
Willow: Urgh!
She loses her balance and falls to the floor once again.
Kid I: Perhaps she's caught someone! She's probably throwin' them in her cauldron as we speak!
Kid I: We have to go rescue them!
Kid II: Er—What should we do? Fetch some grownups?
Kid I: Pah! Grownups are all a bunch of chickens. They'll just tell us to stay away. No, it's down to us, Albert. We have to go save whoever the hag has caught before it's too late! Quick, grab some stones!
The sound of hurried footsteps echoes through the garden.
*crash* A stone smashes through the window and hits the floor near Willow's feet.
Kid I: You wicked old hag! Come out and catch me if you can!
Willow: Bloody hell!
Another stone, and another crash of breaking glass.
Willow: Scheming little devils!
Ignoring the pain in her limb, she goes to the window to yell at them.
Willow: Get away with you!
Kid II: Waaahhh! It's the hag!
There it is again. Another wailing child.
Willow: Shut your mouth!
Miraculously, the crying actually ceases.
Willow: All of you ...
Willow: Get the bloody hell out of my garden!
COMBAT
Willow: This is ...
Although an imitation, it is indeed a gold medal.
Kid II: Hey! Give me back my gold medal!
Flames have been crudely carved upon its surface.
Willow: Where did you get this from?
Kid II: Why should I tell you?
The child presses his lips tightly shut, a determined look in his eyes.
Willow: Tell me.
Kid II: ...
Kid I: That's a souvenir from the Uluru Games! Sister Martha gave it to us. She said it would bring us good luck.
Kid II: Thompson!
Kid I: Th-That's everything I know. Can you let us go now?
The "hag" gives a mocking sneer.
Willow: Is that so? So the medal did bring you good luck after all.
Willow: Go on, take it. Take it and ...
Willow: Get Out!