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.

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YAAAY!! @Nimue