The Stranger leans back against the bar, the cold glow of his eyes dimming as he contemplates the choice. "So, you’re curious about the origin, are you? Not who held it last, but what hand dared to carve such a hateful thing. Fine. If we’re tracing the bloodline of this construct, we’re looking for a craftsman who didn't just understand magic, but who understood the vanity of bone."

The Stranger taps his cane against the floor—a hollow, rhythmic clack that seems to suck the warmth from the basement air. For a fleeting second, the sneer slips from his face, replaced by a shadow of genuine unease. He isn't jealous of the path ahead; he looks at the group as if already measuring them for shrouds.

"The Thief has spoke the truth," he whispers, the violet light in his eyes flickering like a dying candle. "The Coven of the Calcified Grin… they don't craft objects in a forge. They birth them in the brackish water of the Blackwater Mire."

He leans into the gloom, his voice dropping to a jagged, barely audible rasp. "They are three sisters, or three echoes of the same nightmare—it hardly matters what they call themselves this century. They govern the marrow and the pulse. They don't trade in gold, only in favors. They have no use for your promises but will offer promises to you."

He pauses, staring past the group at something only he can see. "If this box was birthed by them, it was fed on a sacrifice of life and done in silence. A scream would have been too loud; a prayer would have been too common. They took the quietest thing a soul has and poured it into the bone."

His gaze snaps back to the party, cold and warning.

"If you go to the Mire, you are not guests—you are candidates for the next carving. If you find the sisters, you will be judged by the weight of your own sins. Do not look at their faces, for they have none that belong to this world. Do not listen to their riddles, for every word they speak is a trapdoor. And for the love of the abyss, keep your eyes off the dark water—do not look at your own reflection in their pools, or you’ll find that you are no longer the one who leaves the swamp."

He steps back, the shadows of the basement swallowing his features. "Prepare yourselves. You are walking into a hunger that has waited a lifetime to be fed. Go… before I decide you’re better off staying here where I can at least watch you die."