Yana
Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead
It is easy to forget that winter lurks outside when amidst the warm and cheery atmosphere of the festival: strings of twinkling lights shed their glow on the bodies beneath them, casting shadows that follow in their masters’ dancing footsteps. An assortment of treats ranging from spicy to sweet are laid out across several wood tables, calling to those who are too shy or too drunk to dance. It seems as if every corner of the room is either full of artistic arrangements of cedar boughs with glittering red bows or guests trying desperately to make themselves heard over the music. The depth of the bass is almost as dizzying as the wine, but the swarm of bodies on the dance floor don’t seem to mind at all; however, the star speckled hag lurking in the shadows might have something to say about it. She is leaning her bony shoulder against one of the stone walls, sipping at her goblet of wine while watching the drunken or dancing denizens of her court. Her eyes and ears move like flies, darting from place to place and never settling in one spot for too long. Though she is not particularly social (and her constant fidgeting can attest to that) the hag leaps at any opportunity to spy on people, and this festival has attracted quite the crowd. The witch has spent most of her time in the swamp since her return, gathering supplies and conducting her research, but it was high time she focused her efforts on obtaining information. Yana knows most of all how valuable it can be.
How is anyone supposed to listen in on a conversation with all of this noise?
She tosses her head in frustration, throwing her long white tresses of twig-free hair over her shoulder (it has been months since she has let it down from its messy bun, and even longer since she last bothered to brush the moss and knots from it. It almost broke her heart to do so, for the swamp gave them to her the day of her return). Something inside of her aches and pulls, like a tiny magnet is sitting inside the hole in her chest where her heart should be, begging for her to return to the mossy green waters of Tinea Swamp. She knows this is not her place, yet she stubbornly chooses to remain here, like the ivy that clings to the castle wall next to her. It does not take long before the hag admits to the futility of her mission – it is impossible for her to hear anything over the clink of glasses and thunder of drums – and besides, her cup is empty.
It is a struggle for the clumsy girl to make her way to the cask of red wine, but she somehow manages to do so without causing too much trouble. The witch fills her cup and sips at her drink, ignoring its dry taste and reminding herself that she has had much worse before. Besides, the more she swallows the easier it is to forget she is an imposter here amidst the bustle and noise, the drink and the cheer. Before she knows it her glass is empty, and so is the one after that – the witch has lost count of how many she has had to drink, and suddenly the thought of adding herself to the writhing crowd does not seem so bad.
Her feet seem to carry her there of their own accord, swinging and twirling their dark mistress around until she is at the heart of the swarm. Her hair is a wild mess of white wind, flitting about and obscuring her vision (which the alcohol has kindly offered to blur) as the witch dances. She can hardly find her feet beneath her as the world slows and the music grows louder, and the girl briefly forgets who she is. All that matters now is that she does not stop moving, twisting, turning her body or else her thoughts might catch up to her. She doesn’t want to think about how lonely she really is, or how she aches to know why her mother chose to bear her if only to force her abusive teachings on the daughter she chose to keep.
For this one, brief moment, Yana can simply be.
And then her hip bumps into the dappled girl, halting her drunken pirouette and all thoughts of the past.
Yana finds herself swaying to the music in time with the stranger, her head held high so that their eyes can meet.
Before she has a chance to form an opinion of her, the hag’s gravelly tones are parting her lips, “Pardon me, but I’m not myself. I’m Yana. Can you show me how to dance?”
Black legs start to move before she hears an answer. She matches the rhythm of the other mare’s swaying, her gaze lifting to watch her companion after every few steps. Something about her seems familiar to the witch, though she’s certain they haven’t met before. She draws herself closer, nearly pressing her shoulder into the woman’s dappled one, and leans in to take a deep breath. A familiar scent lingers on her skin, reminding Yana of the algae-coated pools of the swamp. For the first time in months, it is not a cough but a laugh that bubbles up her throat.
“You smell of the swamp! I live there, too. I thought I was the only one.”
@Corrdelia - I'm so sorry for the wait, and then the super long post. I got carried away <3
