Myrlyth liked to hum when she cooked - old songs, new songs, bad songs, good songs, songs she made up on the spot, even medleys of many songs all at once. She was't particular in her humming, for she simply did it a little too much to be selective. Humming was just an idle habit to her; it was the cooking that she truly enjoyed. Her dishes were her darlings, a pride and joy as dear to her as a child might have been had she been fortunate enough to ever marry. The perfection of her temporary artworks was perhaps the most precious thing on earth to her.
This, of course, made it impossible to convince her to slip a potion into the delicacy prepared for even just an inconsequential stranger. Blasted inconvenient, but not an impossible difficulty to overcome. Willing participation was never something a good assassin should expect. It was unfortunate, really, that the old woman enjoyed her humming so much, belting out the off-key notes with such gusto. Otherwise, she might have heard the quiet tiptoe of an unwelcome stranger slinking up to the pot on the stove, or heard the quiet splosh of three tiny potion drops falling into her turtle garlic soup.
