The swamp was quiet, still, sweet. There was no cauldron’s bubble of the deep green murk, no eerie wail of lost wanderers in the mists. Naught but the relics strung up in the trees, gently swaying, welcomed the starry figure that waited at the periphery. The girl might have looked like a trespasser, her fleeting glances and flighty steps betraying her nerves, but in truth she was once the minder of this place. In the past she would have considered Tinea Swamp her home, but now she feels like an apologetic lover returning after an argument. As her little feet draw her deeper into the swamp, her swamp, she thinks of what to say after so many seasons apart.
Hello, Rannvieg. Thanks for naming me one of your Champions. Oh, sorry for running off on you like that; I have an issue with titles, you see, and rather than disappoint you as I undoubtedly pull blunder after blunder I thought I would run off chasing whispers instead. It seemed more reasonable. I hope you understand. You can’t trust witches, after all.
Though it wasn’t as simple as all that, it was a good synopsis of what had transpired: the pressure of a new title – no, of expectations to perform beyond one’s limits -- had instilled a fear in Yana that she had not been ready to confront at the time. She was so young then. So alone. Fleeing from her problems had seemed like the best idea, but that had meant abandoning her post as the resident swamp hag. All she had ever wanted was to uncover the secrets in her beloved, putrid bog; is it really any wonder what brought her back?
Ensnared by her thoughts, the little witch doesn’t notice the stagnant pool of water until a black foot plunges in. Odd. I don’t remember you here. Enough time has passed that her usual routes have become completely overgrown, flooded, changed. She no longer knows where to put her hooves, which bogs lie about their true depths and which areas to avoid being snapped up for supper. Her movements are tense and her chest burns with the need to cough, but she will not relent – she is not safe yet, not until she finds her obelisk.
White tresses streak behind her as she wades into the water, gathering up all manner of debris. Normally the little witch would pay no mind to such nuisances, but a small smile creeps across her maw for the first time in ages; she hardly deserves them, especially after her hasty departure, but there is comfort to be had in gifts from a friend. She holds her head a little higher, her strides growing bolder with a bolster of confidence. I’ve missed you too.
@Ard
