The white-haired girl is wading through knee-deep water when her sovereign finds her. Black lips are clamped firmly around the end of a lengthy cord, forcing the hag to address the starry woman with a lash of her tail. At the end of the rope -- of which the witch braided cattail leaves together to construct -- is a bundle of branches towing behind her on the water. She has been preparing for some time now, but the question is for what? Perhaps it is time to reveal her plan now that the newly appointed sovereign has come to meet the witch.

She ignores the idea for the time being and instead climbs out of the murky water to drag her cargo ashore. Her sooty head dips between a pair of ashen trees to retrieve the woven cords she has stashed there. The pile of braids lands next to the broken branches with a toss of the hag's head, and she finally turns to greet the one calling for her. Grey eyes reveal few emotions as they dance across the lady's lean body, but perhaps the witch's restless hooves give away her discomfort. Truth be told, the little hag prefers speaking with the star-painted warrior in public. Everything about her radiates confidence: the sense of duty abundant in the wake of her soldier's stride; the arch of her neck that hints at pride but does not convey arrogance; and the deep tones of her voice that carries commands as if they are asking friends for favours, not simply dishing out orders. The hag is interested to see how such a ruler will fair as the figurehead of a scattered realm.

There is certainly a lot to be done for this emerging kingdom, but that is not a matter for witches. Dark eyes land on teal ones at that thought, and a cough erupts from deep within her black chest. Her words are hoarse at first when she speaks, "Welcome, Rannveig. What brings you to my swamp?"

She pauses for only a second to heed her queen's words before returning to her work. The occasional flicker of the girl's dark ears are a testament of her attention to their conversation, though her primary focus is on constructing a net with her pile of cords. Lengthy white tresses obscure the vision of one dull green eye, but the witch is too enveloped by her work to care. The starry girl stares intently at the floating tendrils, urging them to do her bidding as she analyses the other mare's words. My hand in what? She furrows her brow as she tries to coax one fibrous rope into a knot around another. Her teeth start to grind together both in concentration and in discomfort with her leader's blue gaze surveying her progress. She lacks the dexterity that a master would showcase, but the practice she has had braiding the cords does not fail her in this new task of tying them together. The process is slow-going, and rather than draw more attention to her inadequacy to the tall bi-colored beauty she mumbles, "Yes, aid. I require aid."

The distant croak of toads fills the uncomfortable silence following her admission. Nervousness settles upon the black tar of her hide like a swarm of gnats, her skin flinching at their persistent touch. The witch suddenly finds her mouth dry and she licks her lips: perhaps in an attempt to find the right words to say in the delicate hairs surrounding them.
Never an eloquent speaker, she pierces the pungent atmosphere with a cough, "T-tie them like this."

A leafy cord slowly bends in on itself to make a small loop. The end of it curls around the section it overlaps a number of times before feeding itself through the small tunnel it has made, resulting in a noose with a 3-foot long tail. Green eyes briefly peer up at blue ones to gauge their expression. The moment doesn't last long -- for the witch is too anxious about displeasing the stronger mare -- and her gaze quickly drops to the damp moss between her hooves. The starry girl takes a deep breath. This is your sovereign. She offers you sanctuary. This is not the enemy. She is nothing like your mother, and you owe her an explanation.

"I'm making traps. My Lady." She peeks at the taller damsel again, this time willing herself not to look away. The hag wonders if the confidence her painted sovereign radiates is transferable: she can benefit from some of it right now. "Not for intruders, mind you. But for my... studies." This admittance undoes her: the head that was previously bowed by the weight of intimidation -- now unburdened by it as the witch drains herself of unease with every word -- lifts to provide the warrior with all the undivided attention she deserves. Her little project can wait for the time-being; it's not as if it is trying to restore a kingdom to is former glory. "I'm sure you have little time to devote to a witch's whims. I do appreciate help, but only as long as you voice your own concerns whilst tying these with me."