The door of the hut creaked open. Slowly. Groaning on rusted hinges.
And she stepped out.
Tall, hunched, wrapped in patchwork robes of moss and bark. Her nose was long and twisted, her skin cracked like dry riverbeds. Hair flowed from her scalp in tangled gray ropes, decorated with fish bones and children's teeth.
She grinned.
And spoke in a voice like boiling mud.
"Oh, now I see who kicked my dog's ass," she laughed, "Poor dear came back with fire singed on his fur and a hole in his leg." She cackled, slapping her thigh.
To their great surprise, the swamp witch was not what the stories promised.
"Oh come now," she said with a rasping chuckle as she ushered them toward the hut. "You look like drowned rats. Sit. Tea's hot. I'm not some drooling child-eater.
She smiled after a short pause.
"Haven't been for centuries."
The chicken-legged hut bent its knees and settled into the swamp with a gentle thud. Its door creaked wider. Inside, it was strangely warm, filled with the smell of dried herbs, candle wax, and peat smoke. Strange charms hung from the rafters, and a kettle hissed cheerfully on the hearth.
Lybid entered cautiously, followed by Kyi and Methodius. The others lingered near the threshold, half-expecting a trap.
Yurko blinked. "The… wolf was yours?"
"Oh, not mine," she said, pouring tea into mismatched wooden cups. "But he owes me debts. Like most things in this forest."