quelch. Squish. Splash. Gag. The sounds of the rosy mare's steps sending a new, queasy wave of nausea through her body as she traveled ever deeper into the swamp. She treaded carefully, with a poised hoof lifted over the water, as if each step had her second guessing if she wanted to sink further into the murk. Her legs were covered in a thick layer of mud, splashed upwards onto the underside of her belly, utterly disgusted that her long mane and tail dragged in the water. The crone cursed aloud, mumbling to herself in a string of swear words.
She recalled leaving the borders of Delumine in the wee hours of morning, traveling as the sun made it's slow ascent across the sky. It had been late afternoon when she had crossed into foreign territory, and then early evening by the time she had arrived at the Tinea. But now, in the heart of the swamp, the thick of humidity and trees and mud had all but sucked the sunlight out of the atmosphere; a bubble of muted colors and mysterious happenings. For the only reason why Nimue would waste an entire mortal day prowling such a dreary place was for a rumor.. of another witch. Someone much like her own.
Curiosity had dragged her here, in hopes of finding out the truth of this other woman. The Swamp Witch, they had whispered. She remembered snickering at the name before she realized that maybe, just maybe, this woman of Dusk might be like her in some way. Nimue had attempted using her newfound Sight to try and See the stranger without having to visit in-the-flesh. But alas, either by drained energy or lack of experience as a mortal being, the timelines were muddled and blurry — much like the swamp where this witch called home.
Squelch. Another step, another string of curse words, as a hammer pounded against the inside of her skull. Her frustration was palpable, mailable, as her headache raged and her Sight continued to fail her. Squish, splash, gag, as she continued deeper into the swamp to find this other witch.
@Yana + anyone welcome ♡
Figured I'd throw an initial meet & greet thread up haha
When all that you have's turnin' stale and it's cold,
Oh you'll no longer fear when your heart's turned to gold
The starry figure is barely discernible from the shadows encompassing her home. One might notice long curtains of milky hair floating in the distance and, upon the approach of a curious wanderer, snowy specks hanging in the musty atmosphere; otherwise the hag is invisible where she stands submerged in a turbid pool. The little witch's habits puzzle many, although most -- wisely -- prefer not to challenge her methods. She is a Champion of the Dusk Court, and a witch at that: there's no telling what the tempestuous maid might do should someone set her off. Despite her peculiarities, she upholds her contract with the Sovereign of Terrestella as both a skilled physician and modest diplomat; at the present moment, however, she is fishing.
Still as a mountain, dark nose skimming the surface of the stagnant water, she waits. Her eyes probe the murky depths in search of one particular fish: the electric catfish. There has been no sign of such a creature for hours, but the witch will not be discouraged. She harasses the darting black forms of fry and frogs that approach her bait -- a capybara she has found in a trap from this morning -- to practice throwing rocks at her prey. Her control of the projectiles is not as steady as with the cords she has braided. Weight must have something to do with it. I’ve honed this skill for hours now, and manipulating plant life does not trouble me. At least the girl’s aim is good enough with the rocks.
Perhaps a wooden spear will serve better…?
Abandoning her post, the little witch wades towards shore. Tangled white banners of hair drag behind her, collecting all manner of debris. Perhaps one day the people will know me as Yana the Collector instead. Black lips twist in a small smile at the thought of her proposed infamy. Her mood dampens immediately with her next thought, but you’ll have to actually leave the swamp for others to know you. Though her criticism is not entirely true -- recollection of her early days in Novus determines that she met Weir and a woodsmoke man outside of her watery abode -- it does describe her best: the girl has embraced the lifestyle of a hermit since agreeing to serve as Champion of Healing.
My duty is to serve my people, not to socialize.
Putrid water drips from her flesh to nourish the moss underfoot. The hag approaches a frail cypress tree in the hopes of finding an abandoned branch at its thick base. She is nearly upon the ancient sentinel when movement beyond its gnarled red bark catches her eye. Her approach ends immediately with head held low and legs poised to flee; the star-spangled girl is not expecting anyone, nor has any summon shattered the serene atmosphere of the swamp at night. Uncertainty creeps up stout legs like cold hands, immobilizing them and robbing her of the ability to run. The best course of action is to remain steady, enveloped by shadow, and hope the stranger does not turn around.
But you are a Champion now, a part of the Counsel: should word get out that you allowed an intruder free-reign in your swamp....
“Who goes there?”
I will defend my bog until threatened, the hag decides.
he Witch Child traveled further and deeper into the muck of the swamp, a permanent snicker curling her alabaster lips with each squelch and squish. An evil little faerie swung a constant hammer against the inside lining of her skull; so much so that she swore colorfully. Her Sight was useless with a migraine plaguing her, which only irritated her more. What good was it to be the sole holder of the relic, her magic finally unbound, but have her gifts be as uncontrollable as a weaning toddler?
Her annoyance was palpable, nearly convinced that finding the truth of silly rumors was not worth her time when a voice shuddered through the dying light and humidity:
Who goes there?
Delicate, refined ears flick and find the direction where the voice emerged. She halts, hooves sinking deep into the mud as ruddy water pools around her legs. The rank of decay is heavy, a musk thick with rotting wood and akin to dying critters. But it is not the swamp that draws her attention; instead, the Witch Child's haunting gaze falls upon a creature frozen beneath a cypress tree to her left. At first glance, she notes the silvery-white tresses falling in long strands — stained by the putrid swamp water no doubt — and her coat of ebony littered with stars. Nimue's orbs narrowed, and through thick lashes, she notices how the woman is poised to run away; frozen in place either by surprise or fear, she did not know.
A smirk pulls at her lips, her rosy brow furrowed with amusement and something else she could not place. Surely, the woman here must be the rumored Swamp Witch; but she wasn't positive. She had yet to run into anyone; but then again, who would actually call this swamp a dwelling, a home?
"You look like death warmed over, Swamp Witch," she called, almost lazily, taking her chances and knowledge to call the woman by what she was.
@Yana ♡
yay!! -throws confetti and dances- I'm so sorry for Nim omg xD She's just a cranky crone.