The tall grass clutched at the witch's stout legs as she pursued the source of the call. Her belly was still damp with swamp water and her hooves left a light trail of mud in her wake, but her curiosity left little room for self-consciousness to squeeze in. The starry mare had been exploring the swamp when she heard the distant echo of a voice. Another stranger? How many are there? She left her swamp under the protection of the towering black obelisk she had found several weeks ago. Truth be told, the immobile figure was  a much better guardian than the flighty black hag. 

Drops of putrid water dripped from her black skin as she stopped before who had summoned her. Stormy blue eyes had to squint against the harsh light bouncing from the vixen's bi-colored coat, and even then that was all the witch could make of the stranger: the sun was playing tricks on her eyes, and she could not make out the other's well-maintained musculature, nor the similarity in their markings that mirrored the night sky. For now she would have to ignore studying the stranger for weaknesses. And you'd do best to try hiding your own. 

As if on cue, a cough erupted from the ebony hag's maw to muffle her introduction, "Y-Yana... Resident witch of the swamp." She flicked her ivory tail -- which she had recently bound in one thick braid -- in the direction of Tinea Swamp. She wondered if admitting to her status was a mistake: her dam had told her stories of customers seeking the aid of witches, but she had also warned Yana about those wanting to burn them. Her aunt had laughed harshly at that, for she had devoted her life to practising magic of the same element.

Black hips rock from side to side while the witch waits for others to follow her muddy trail. She purses her lips to attempt to smother another cough, but it explodes past her yellowing teeth with ease. The hag's ears flicker back towards her crown in annoyance.Just as troublesome as the witch who cursed me with it. Although the starry girl is well-versed in medicine she has never been able to rid herself of the cough. First you maim me, sweet aunt, and now you make it impossible to demonstrate my skills in our trade. Surely the stranger will question her capability as a witch if she cannot even tend to herself. Soothing wounds is one thing, however, and lifting curses another. You'll have to prove yourself in that regard later.

The arrival of the winged youth interrupts that thought. Yana gratefully removes her gaze from a warrior surrounded by the sun's radiant light to a slender flower girl and her ornate weapon. The witch makes note of the odd combination with another flick of her tail. Does the cherub have a wicked side, I wonder? Stormy eyes roam across the delicate tangle of flowers strewn about her hair, but they are quick to return the girl's gaze when the hag notices her staring. An ear twitches at the tinkling sound of her voice: she cannot decide whether to feel abashed by the golden girl's comment on her kind, or venerated by it. Beauty means little in my trade, sweetling. "You met the best of us long ago, then." A smile perches on the witch's maw for a moment, but a series of harsh coughs steals it away. You remind me of what I could have been, little dove. I must have met the wrong witch.

The first stranger -- the wingless one, and the one she has not had a chance to develop an opinion of yet -- voices her agreement with the bird before continuing on. Another who knows our reputation. Black lips tighten whilst considering this new information, but before there is a chance to act on it a truly bizarre creature makes his own introduction.

A combination of the bi-colored stag's anxiety and declaration of Rannveig's position makes the hag feel uneasy. Her mind immediately goes towards the swamp that she has had the audacity to consider as her home: what will she do now that she knows it is not hers? A nervous snort expels itself from her nares. She has already admitted to residing there, and taking the words back now will only make her look foolish. But did she not ask for aid?

"I admit I do not know of the Dusk Court... lady." It takes the witch a moment to think of the term one must refer to a ruler as. "Perhaps it is in both of our interests to shed some light on the matter? I am not one for reconstructing a fallen empire but, as I'm sure you've heard, I have my uses." A faint smile returns to midnight lips at the prospect of serving her purpose again.