Wait, why not make her a character who puts up stalls inside the middle of the dungeons (rest stops or whatnot) and makes sure to stock up on necessities adventurers might have missed. Herself being self-sufficient (she’s had lots of experience), or has a partner who has the same hobby.

She has very competitive prices–just a small markup for her troubles. And has become an urban legend amongst adventurers as “granny mart”. Some rely on her foot cream, others for her home-cooked meals, and still others for her effective home-made potions.

takes notes

I made half elf once who outlived her human husband and one day said: “Fuck it! Ma granbabies gots babies. The family’s got things under wraps here. I’m off t’find a‘venture!”

She got Strahded and never exited the Death House.

You could have a group of monsters hiding in the shadows just past Granny Mart, who get very confused when the adventurers finish shopping and leave.

It turns out that Granny’s health potions just taste so much better than the others.

“My my, this old temple is a mess! Who’s going to clean this up?”

Scene cuts to a bunch of kobolds scrubbing the floors and taking out wrecked furniture while happily munching on home-made cookies.

In my head, there’s more than one of them, they’re a group of retirees who chose this method of funding and enabling their ability to tick off their bucket list. They can be NPCs or DMPCs depending on the situation, and explains away the JRPG trope of the merchant in the last boss dungeon. The merchant turns out to be a retiree choosing to set up shop in the middle of their own adventures.

Little did Granny know that a component of her home-made potion is both delicious and addictive.

This is basically Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Oog.

“Can’t be havin’ with this barbarian nonsense!”

“I could be havin’ with his nonsense…”

“Gytha!”

I played a whole Curse of Strahd campaign as “Merrtyle.” She was a bard, didn’t play an instrument. Painted instead. She was a fanatic of Ilmater, and I had her follow a bonkers over the top sect. She went everywhere in a hair shirt, self-flagellated herself with a cat-and-nine-tails, and generally lived the most miserable austere existence possible. Her physical stats were garbage. Once when the party had to scurry up a rope to an upper floor, she couldn’t make it, and the other party members had to pull her up by a rope around her waste. And a common saying of hers was, “hold your horses, in coming…” as the party waited for her to catch up.

She was a blast to play.

Granny is sitting there casually knitting. The adventure looks a bit closer and notices she’s making chainmail armor. Using a ball of stainless steel as yarn. The ball jumps up and down, chipping away at the floor. This isn’t helped by either a small tiger of really overgrown cat, most likely her familiar, batting at the ball. She notices the adventurer staring and asks:

“Hello young men. Would you like some armor? Here, let me check if it fits.”

Granny stands up with the speed of an attacking snake and casually drapes the largely finished armor over him, making his knees almost buckle under the weight.

“Oh dear, this is a bit too big on you. Let me find one a bit smaller, perhaps in a lighter fabric. One second, please.”

She returns as swiftly as she departed, and swoops seamlessly under his arm to take measurements.

Sensing danger, the adventurer reaches for his hilt and draws out his dagger.

The Granny, mouth full of sewing pins, deftly and graciously accepts with a “thank you” and uses it to cut some of the material near the back for a better fit. She sheaves it quickly back into his hilt, and slaps a cup of tea into his still outstretched hand.

“There you go, dearie” she says, patting his bottom.