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They found her some hours later, still sobbing, hidden deep in the corners of the rookery. Something in her flight had driven her to the only thing more alien than herself in this place -- White Glint, in her infinite grace, had deigned to allow this. Lidia was found bawling her guts out in a ball at the great hawk's feet, the Queen of the Skies perched protectively over the sorrowful form of the heartbroken changeling.

It was Martin who found her, of course. His mangled face both best and worst thing to see through the blur of tears, she avoided his gaze as he coaxed her away from her taloned protector, she noted he had not come alone.

"Lidia, c'mon Bloodhound look at me," he encouraged her gently, the panic-stricken little changeling looking up at him with luminous haunted eyes, her face buried in a familiar silken handkerchief.

"That's it, good lass," he prompted and she drew in a shuddering, rasping breath, eyes and face puffy and streaked.

"G-Gram?" she stammered, shoulders and throat working around almost involuntary sobbing. Martin's face was perpetually in a partial scowl, the raking wounds that had ruined his almost heartbreaking beauty had dragged down his face to his jaw, tearing his lips as well and leaving one in a permanent downward angle that made even his most heartfelt smiles a bit crooked. Both sides of his mouth were frowning now though.

"Still unconscious -- a coma, really. Sister Brenan told me to bring you back as soon as we found you." Lidia recoiled at his words, winding into a tighter ball as the... damage, she did to her loverboy was made real again. A mewling sound of terror left her, fresh tears coursed down her cheeks and for a moment, she was lost again.

White Glint had brooded many chicks in her time, and she knew when a creature was in need of mothering. A faint warbling noise emerged from her throat as the massive avian fluffed its down and gently encircled Lidia in its wings. Reflexively, the little changeling clung to this kindness, her hands and arms wrapping up around her, burying her face in the soft fluff of the powerful creature's chest as she continued to sob -- the hawk continued to coo and chirp at her, grooming her hair with gentle, doting motions. Martin capitalized on the break in her malaise, the scarred soldier's voice earnest.

"Lidia, please, Sister Brenan sent for you. She needs you to help the Captain." he pleaded, his tone frank and direct. Martin was always the pragmatist. "She needs to see, to know what you did... how you are affecting him," the man stammered, bridling his tongue in his teeth as Lidia's haunted green eyes peered out from the downy chest of the hawk.

He'd said what he meant. She knew it. He knew it. What she'd done to him. What she had done to Gram.

"I swear tae ye... I dinnae know..." she moaned piteously, the misery in her gaze was an emptiness that made their green depths yawn like chasms, "I dinnae know I was... hurtin' him, I dinnae know..." she began to babble again, her mind a muddy mess of possibilities and fears -- he'd looked just like her father had when she'd found him, never had she seen a man die like that again! Was it her? Had she killed her father with her love? Was she cursed to bleed anyone she loved? What would happen to Bart, or the dandy next time she saw them, what about dear Naima? Was she killing them all? How long? How many had she accidentally done this to already?

It swirled and twirled in her mind like a storm of accusations, all in the voices of scorn and self-loathing, everything she had been free of with Gram crashing down around her ears like the inexorable pull of gravity, and heavy, heavy it was indeed.

"I know," Martin blurted, his tongue once again running ahead of his brain in his directness -- this time in her heart's favor -- he pursed his torn lips and reiterated, "I believe you, I don't think you'd hurt anything if you had the choice, Bloodhound," he said, eyes tracking warily to White Glint -- who had puffed herself up defensively as the soldier approached the grief-mad girl. The Queen of the Skies would decide when she was safe, it seemed.

"It's me, I cannae tell ye how but ye dinnae 'ave tae say it," she stammered, throat ravaged by sobs, still uncontrollable as she clung tight to the avian, staring out at Martin desperately from the shattered remains of her world.

"Ah'm killin' my loverboy."

The words croaked out of her in an anguished rasp and she hid her face away in White Glint's down, shoulders wracking as the waves of despair crashed over her again, dragging her beneath in another torrent of internal recriminations. Martin's teeth showed in frustration, his shoulders slumped with a sigh as he ran a hand through his white-blonde hair, a nervous tic she'd recognized from the siege.

"Yes, Lidia. Yes she's fairly sure you're killing him, but right now she has to see how, there are steps we can only take once we know, we _need_you to come down if we're going to help Gram." he said exasperated, his own gaze going dull as she recognized the grim set of duty overtaking him once again. Martin was like a stone wall once he was set to do something.

"Please don't make me carry you bodily to the Captain."

Lidia recoiled from his resolute tone -- he'd do it, of that there was no doubt even swimming as deep in the ocean of anguish as she was. White Glint clacked her beak pointedly as Martin approached again, seeming to also disapprove of this line of action -- the changeling apparently had not been mothered enough yet. The scarred soldier came up short at that.

"Lidia, Please..."

"Jus' get the Lady, ye tellin' me ye cannae do that?!" she barked hoarsely, rationalizing it, clinging to it -- Cithara would fix it, she could fix anything couldn't she?

"The Lady closed the Glade, Lidia. We cannot reach her, even if we wanted to."

Lidia stared at him, and the set of his jaw brooked no argument, the blond man shook his head,

"I don't have time to explain the why to you, the Captain could have minutes or days, but we won't know until Sister Brenan looks you over." he said and his exasperated voice took on a plaintive tone.

"Please don't make me fight the bird, I'm scarred up enough as it is."

White Glint seemed poised to test that assertion, and Lidia wasn't sure either of them would come out of that unscathed, hammering home the still-alien intellect of the grand creature, the other Outsider she'd sought by pure instinct. Allied, loved and revered -- yet apart. The little changeling blew out a breath and dragged herself free of the downy safety of the hawks bosom, still mired in that swamp of despair dragging her shoulders slack and robbing the light from her eyes. White Glint clacked her beak, and leaned down in quick, bobbing motions and rubbed the soft down of her throat across Lidia's redheaded scalp, cooing reassuringly at her. White Glint had brooded _many_chicks.

"Iffin' Sister Brenan says so, I... I'll try..." she said, taking Martin's hand as she met his gaze once more, the scarred man's eyes went wide. The grief had robbed her of her humanity, to an extent -- her large green eyes were puffy and sunken, drawing attention to their too-large, almond shape and their slitted pupils. Her cheeks were rough and sallow, her lips puffy and swollen with the repeated gnawing and gnashing of worried, sharp teeth -- teeth that were readily apparent as her drawn features clenched and ground those sharp fangs together. She looked truly like a fae thing, cold, distant and wrong. Her features crumpled again and panic rushed across her face, adding an almost feral glint to her expression as she saw the familiar disquiet in her friend's features. Another layer of grief upon her.

"I swear I dinnae know Martin... I'd 'ad done meself first iffin' I'd known..." she wailed quietly, wrapping her arms around the man as he squeezed her, enfolding her in a brotherly embrace as she crumbled apart again, decades of self-loathing peaking in a single breakdown.

He ended up carrying her after all.

~ ~ ~

The strangest thing happened.

She felt better.

The distance had shrank as Martin had carried her, her slight sidheborn frame not burdening the seasoned soldier one whit as he hurried through the halls, the calls of men who had been searching for her along with him chaining ahead of him, swinging doors open and clearing hallways. He didn't run, but it was a near thing as his heavy boots rang beneath her at a clipped pace.

But... she felt better. Every step towards that tugging, yearning thrum in her belly drew the cold away from her limbs, even Martin seemed to notice as he caught her eye from where she stirred, having been bawling into the crook of his shoulder. Her flesh was pinked-up more, and the hollow, feral cast of her features had lessened. Both thief and soldier exchanged an uncomfortable glance as the realization passed over them simultaneously, a grim portent.

The doors to the infirmary banged open ahead of them, it was mostly absent patients aside a few bumps and bruises that always found their way in from the daily drills and small community within -- but today all eyes and efforts were focused around one too-still figure on the central-most bed within the triage center.

"No, the poultices don't seem to be having any affect, not even the Rezarian infusions, there's nothing wrong with his body_for them to fix!" came a familiar, mature voice with just a hint of the Heartlands lilt. Sister Brenan's gaze locked onto Martin with a stern nod. The sister ran the kitchens because she knew. She knew the people she cared for, the place she lived. Sister Brenan's full title was complicated and Lidia didn't have much of a head for its meaning or tongue for its full pronunciation, but it was something like 'Sister Benevolent Brenan of the Ascendant Sisterhood' or something. What it meant to Lidia was she _knew. She knew like Cithara did, lore, wisdom, medicine and yes -- cookery. She was wise, stern and strong. A mother. Lidia was collecting a lot of those.

"You found her," she breathed, and there was clear and definite relief in her voice a moment as she came over, her face also rigid in that familiar mask of Duty, there was a look to these Church sorts when they were in their element, devotion rendered people all a piece it seemed. Martin nodded, and Brenan made a coaxing gesture.

"Report, what did she look like when you found her?" she asked, taking Lidia's face in her hands and smiling at her -- it was a tight thing, but genuine.

"She was bawling like a child with a dead puppy, pale and sallow and... wrong. She looked like she was light a few measures of blood if you were to put it to me."

"... and now she pinks up like a fresh-born babe." she murmured, stroking Lidia's warming flesh. She felt _much_better now, and with an uncomfortable shrug -- she pushed away from Martin, setting her feet beneath her. The three of them drew the same conclusion at the same time, all eyes going towards Gram.

Gram, who had gotten notably paler after she'd entered the room. Oh god, she hadn't even_touched_him this time.

"It's as I feared. God's Blood," Brenan breathed, taking Lidia's hand and pulling her back as she reflexively reached for Gram's pale form. He was so still, his chest barely moved. Death loomed above him like a specter.

"You're drinking him, God's Blood you're tied together, essence to essence." she said, a cold awe in her tone. "Your mother... she wasn't a simple giddy forest nymph." she declared, and met Lidia's gaze firmly, the green-eyed changeling felt cold again, shrinking away.

"I dinnae know her well, she nae came 'round often after giving me tae me dad," Lidia hedged, avoiding the Sister's eyes, "An' tae me she jus' looked like she ought tae, tall, skin like mine, eyes like mine... hair black as a raven's wing, though." she shook her head and Brenan came towards her again.

"Lidia, it's important, what all can ye remember of what your mother was?" she asked, and the little sidheborn woman bit her raw lip anew, shifting away reflexively from the woman, her eyes going to Gram's cool form in worry.

"Nae much, I was a wee babe!" she protested, hugging herself. "I wasn't even in tae double-digits in summers when dad died, an' I hadn't seen mum since I was littler than that, she ne'er came back after the night dad died," fresh tears gleamed on her cheeks as the wave of accusing voices painted the picture of her father's pale, blue-lipped form lying in his bed -- just like Gram. She'd done this, hadn't she.

"Lidia, I need ye to think for me sweetling," Brenan's voice came again, this time closer, having moved up on the defensive changeling as she huddled, a warm hand touched her cheek, turning her face to meet her gaze; "Something, anything, even the smallest detail can help me find a way to save Gram."

Lidia froze in that gaze, eyes dilating to slashes of black on green as she felt trapped, she wanted to run, to flee and hide somewhere again until the despair washed over her head again, drowned her in it until she couldn't feel anything... but Sister Brenan's warm gaze drew her back, and she closed her eyes to it, thinking back.

"Mum's name... Dad always called her 'Morgan' but, sometimes Dad called her somthin' else when he thought I was sleepin' or out ramblin'..." she said, delving down into memories long-buried of her father, of happiness.

"A different name?" she asked, Morgan was a common enough name Lidia figured it wasn't real, but this other one.

"He called her somethin', Lee-ann, Lea, somethin' like that, he was sitting alone, lookin' out into the wood when he said it." Brenan's eyes went wide and she gently drew Lidia's face back to hers, looking her in the eyes directly.

"Lidia... was the word_Lenansidhe?"_

Like a bolt of lightning the word rang her very being like a bell. Memories unlocked in the hundreds, buried by grief and immature understandings. Times she'd heard it in casual conversation, times it'd been part of quiet observations, curses, songs. She knew that word. In some ways, it _defined_her as well. Brenan's eyes went all the wider as the little changeling could only stare mutely, and nod.

"Merciful God," she breathed, and looked to Gram again, "Lidia, sweetling... your mother was a very, very much not a nice, simple forest fae. Was ye father a craftsman?"

"A woodcutter, but he carved as much as he chopped, aye..." she said, thinking back to her father's strong, nimble fingers and his many tiny little worlds and figures he'd carve and sell. The reasons she'd had to go to Lachheim and its many markets and stalls. Father's figurines and woodcrafts. Sister Brenan nodded, her eyes were bleak and her face anguished as she stroked Lidia's hair, tears rose to the mute sidheborn girl's eyes.

"I dinnae know... I swear tae God..."

"Shhh," Brenan hushed her, drawing her to her chest as she stared worriedly, contemplatively at Gram's cool form, nearer a corpse than a captain now, "No way ye could have, God no way to know until..." she closed her mouth around that untoward thought, leaving it unspoken as Lidia swallowed fresh sobs. Sister Brenan took a deep breath, nodding to herself.

"Lieutenant," she stated in a stout tone, Martin's face snapping up to her and his body going rigid. That was the tone of authority. "Gather your men double-time, we need a litter, a rolling cart, and everything on a list I will detail to you shortly." she said and gently detached herself from Lidia to walk to Gram's side, laying her hand on his face and cheek and taking a breath.

"We're going into the woods, to see a witch about a curse."

~ ~ ~

The bustle of activity precluded any immediate questions as Brenan barked out several more orders and snatched up a charcoal and scroll and began scribbling furiously. Lidia faded into the background, getting as far away from Gram as she could and still see him in between the rushing forms. She found a calm spot in the storm, a nestled spot in between barrels where the shadows darkened just a bit. Instinctively, she retreated to the dark, green eyes gleaming wide as she watched the others working, as she felt the warmth of summer return to her heart and flesh... she hadn't realized how cold she was, and now she knew why. Just being near her loverboy was sapping him, and that thrumming burn in her belly was a low smolder, she pressed her hands over her belly, gritting her teeth as she realized she was laying her hands over her womb.

Her love. Her love was killing him. Her desire to be his had been his doom.

That burning... that's what it had been, the simmering snap and bite of her cursed blood supping on Gram in licking, laving gulps. Every time she'd indulged it and the wonderful pull of their embrace... she'd been biting pieces of him off? She swallowed heavily, nausea following the thrum up into her guts as the words of Sister Brenan played in her mind again.

She was eating him. Her love took bites out of his soul and he smiled as she did it.

The wave of recrimination surged back up and her heart began to pound in anxiety against her chest as she dragged her nails in misery down her face. Her breath came short as she began to flounder in the growing dread -- was she a monster? Had she killed her father? What about others? People had always gotten sick around her -- of course they did, she was a poor street rat! Yet... she never had many people linger near her... and Kull even, had needed his cane more and more, surely that was just him getting old right? Surely she hadn't been taking bites out of everyone she ever loved, even a little?

Had she?

The darkness suddenly felt oppressive rather than safe, it had teeth and baleful, glaring eyes to her and her heart thundered and her limbs shook. She couldn't breathe and the world seemed out of focus as she tried to find words to call for help, and instead exploded from the dark place she'd ensconced herself with a scramble of limbs, scampering furiously towards Sister Brenan, who had just finished jotting down her manifest, handing it to Martin.

"... Sister am I reading this right?" he asked, already in motion but peering at it. Brenan nodded firmly.

"Everything on that list, no questions, Lieutenant." she said, and just like that, the scarred man snapped to attention and proceeded at speed out of the infirmary. Duty as ever, drove Martin harder than curiosity or questions did. He was a very good boy.

"Sister, Sister!" Lidia gasped, the claws of panic still deep in her heart, she remembered a question she had earlier, grief and woe burying it but now desperation had her reaching for anything to grasp onto; "Why is the Glade closed?! Martin said the Lady was nae listenin', she isn't like that, Cithara wouldn't just _abandon_me!" she all but wailed, and Brenan's heart broke in her eyes for a moment before she squeezed the little changeling's shoulders, holding her steady as she lowered her voice just between the two of them.

"Lidia... Ser Bart was very, very badly hurt. Worse even than Gram is now, much worse. The Lady closed the Glade because she needs all of her focus to repair the damage he endured... but, that is besides the point," she paused, drawing her chin up firm.

"We revere the Lady, but we do not run to her for every solution. She is our divine example, not a peddler of petty miracles to beg solve our every woe. We would exhaust all means before asking her, even if she were not otherwise indisposed. To call upon her like that_exposes_ her, as surely ye of all people are aware now."

Lidia recoiled from that a bit, feeling lectured... but aye, she had been. Deservedly to some degree, maybe she had gotten a bit used to having the grand powers of the mystical and divine on hand to solve problems. It had happened so fast, it just felt... natural. The Lady's love felt that intimate, she shook her head and looked up with crushed eyes.

"Is this nae important enough for her?" Brenan sighed, and smiled at her.

"In other circumstances... yes, yes it would be. Which is why I have taken the more... extreme measures, that I must now." the Sister bustled back over and set about preparing Gram for travel -- Lidia pointedly staying back far as she could.

"Truth be told for all my bluster at ye about duty, I was the first to run straight to her when Gram came in like this. I have little right to judge, for I need something as powerful as her to mend this in lieu of ye knowing how to do it yourself."

"Ye mentioned a witch," Lidia said in a small voice, having curled up atop a barrel in the corner of the room with a pallet of blankets. She felt small still, and unconsciously made herself unobtrusive.

"A witch, the Witch. I shan't speak her name out of turn, not this close to her abode -- but the only way to counter sidhe sorcery like this, is with other sidhe sorcery." Brenan explained as she continued to bind Gram up into a snug bundle to keep his slack limbs straight in transit. "I have a marker with her, a favor owed for a favor done. I had thought to go to the Pale Dawn with it unspent..." but she ran her hand over Gram's cold, still cheek.

"One of my boys deserves it, and there's naught else use in such a thing if it can't save one man."

Her eyes flicked up to Lidia; "Ye will need to come. I know enough of sidhe magicks from study that having both halves of a curse like this on hand allows better view of the seeming of it," she said, as she finished dressing the cavalier tightly, he'd been mostly nude. Lidia realized she'd never seen Gram wholly naked, and part of her was suddenly full-glad Brenan had covered him before she could. To glimpse her loverboy, naked and bare, like this? A terrible waste of a memory.

"But... I cannae be close tae him, even this close I'm killin' him by the minute..." she rasped in a voice thready and raw, her eyes dull with despair once more.

"Ye can't stay regardless, the way Martin described ye atop the rookery painted the same fate for you too far from him," she said grimly, looking down at Gram's comatose form in its bundle, "You've tied your own essence into his somehow, whatever part of your mother's blood awoke in you has grasped him with both hands and won't let go until one of you is dead." The Sister's eyes met hers, agate-hard and full of a resolve that filled the young changeling with an uncanny sort of hope that dared to of all things -- believe.

"I won't let that happen. Get your things. We're leaving at once."

The bustle of renewed momentum drowned her reply, but she managed a nod as Martin and his cadre of soldiers returned -- notably containing few men, but nearly all of the Sisters from the Scriptorium, all arrayed in mail and the colors of the order, girded for battle.

"Leave the weapons, we won't need them, or be allowed them for that matter," Brenan remarked as she lead her fellow sisters, were they the same order? Lidia felt a surge of shame at not knowing them better, all her free time had been focused on Gram -- and now she saw the truth of that fixation. Martin raised an eyebrow.

"Unarmed, in the Sidhewood? Is that wise?"

"Quite. We're entering the Erlking's woods on his own terms, not our Oath through the Lady. He has no reason to brook our intrusion, and to carry iron into his borders in the form of arms and armor will only draw his ire.

"Where must we go where the Lady's Oath upon the Erlking does not reach us?" Martin asked as he unbelted his sword, handing it off along with the Sisters' own to the goodmen that staffed the infirmary. Sister Brenan's eyes were hard as she and her fellows hoisted Gram's supine form onto the litter. Time was clearly of the essence.

"To the one who writ that accord, bound it in blood both sidhe and divine. We go to Grandmother Winter, the Witch of the Dark Forest, the Uncrowned Queen of the Unseelie Court, unspoken is her name lest we offend her or worse -- draw her attention too early. She is the Lady and Erlking's equal in power and influence, and Gram's only hope."

Sister Brenan's voice lowered and she ushered them towards the door.

"I only pray to God that we are not yet too late."

~ ~ ~

They left within a quarter-hour. The assembled collection of Sisters numbered only three including Brenan at the end, Martin refused to be left behind, but Sister Brenan firmly denied the attendance of anyone else. A cart was provided, loaded with a collection of... strange effects. And a chicken. A live, very irritable chicken.

"You're certain this hen has laid before?" she said, the small wicker cage they'd put the irate fowl into rattling under its protests as they spurred the stout donkey driving the cart along at a considerable pace.

"Positive, had her latest batch for breakfast." Martin assured her, Brenan nodding as she secured it firmly in the cart, Gram's body lying in the center... almost as if arrayed for funerary rites. Lidia stayed a distance away, as far as she could. She could hear,feel Gram's breath slow if she stood too close, that burning in her belly seeming to tempt her closer, reminding her of how it had thrummed and peaked in times of happiness. Begging her to sidle close and simply kiss him, surely that's all those cool lips needed, the warmth of her own...

Shaking herself, she fell back another series of paces. None had mounts, much like their weapons and armor, Brenan had firmly denied it.

"No weapons, no warhorses, not even a boot knife or strong language if you can avoid it. We walk unguarded into the Unseelie domain, and any form of hostility may be viewed as an act of invasion by the woods themselves, and then Gram won't be the only one lost to sidhe magicks." she had said, Martin now wearing a simple jerkin and hose, with the Sisters having discarded their mail for surcoats and the ever-present face-hugging wimple they wore.

"What is all of this for?" Martin continued as they exited the central concourse, Fort Ivory's twin citadels both were divided by the mile-long concourse that lead straight into the Sidhewood -- and under normal circumstances, straight to the Lady's Glade. With the magics that drew one to her absent, the woods yawned ahead of them instead as a primeval wall. The trees were so massive as to be fortresses unto themselves, the vaulting canopy seeming a furlong itself above them, the shade so dense as to simply cloak the woods themselves in near-eternal twilight. Brenan followed his gaze to the small box of genuinely strange effects: A silver pin, a ragdoll in the shape of a girl with red yarn hair, a censer, a packet of seasonings and spices, and curiously an old, rusted cleaver and knife.

"Grandmother Winter does not accept guests lightly, these are... tolls, for a lack of a better term." Brenan said as they crossed that line of shadow, the wood seeming to reach out and engulf them in its cool darkness. Even the ground changed, the hard-packed earth of the concourse rapidly turning to root-embossed loam and the grass-less soil of truly ancient forests. The walls of the woods seemed to close behind them, the gloom encompassing them wholly as they walked... seemingly aimlessly. There was but one path forwards. Brenan's voice rang out again, sharp and instructive.

"Do not stray from the path, do not answer any questions asked to you by the shadows, do no harm to a creature of the wood, but allow none of them to harm you in turn. Follow no lights, and light no fires of your own. We are no longer in Northsea, this is another place."

Just like that the party fell silent. Lidia had been to another place before, the Empty Queen's demesnes were fresh in her memory: ever-present and clear as glass. Time and distance had done nothing to dull the visceral memory of the place, and she did not think it ever would. The weight of such a place settled over the party as they strove forwards.

Conversation died in the effort of the march, they moved at as fast a pace as the cart could manage without jostling Gram into things, his pale form already looked ready for the grave except for shallow, barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest under the binding. Lidia distanced herself further, falling back behind the group and lingering at the edges of the group -- Brenan had forbade them bring all but the essentials, Martin had refused to be left behind, and Lidia was needed by her own words. Beyond the pair themselves she had brought with her naught but two other Sisters from the scriptorium, Sister Colette and Sister Sabine, both were dark-haired with sharp features of their Darrowmite upbringing -- Colette was the taller of the two by half a head, and Sabine's frame was noticeably more muscular beneath her surcoat and wimple. Both had vivid eyes that stood out beneath the wimple, Colette's a vivid gemstone blue, and Sabine's a red-brown like autumn leaves. They were silent but unimposing, simply serving at Brenan's needs.

They came to a dead end of sorts, the path in the woods had been narrowing and growing darker, colder and full of brambles. The feel of it had become distinctly unfriendly, the bend of the ancient trees foreboding, as if the trunks themselves glared down from their impossible height. Like ominous, wooden fortresses glowering at these pitiable intruders in their realm. The path had narrowed to a point the cart struggled and the donkey brayed its unhappiness at the rough goings, when they found their path obstructed by a figure atop a horse.

The figure was arrayed all in white, and the horse itself as well was a clear, bright, unblemished white from mane to tail, even its hooves and tack gleamed in perfect pale hue. The man himself was wrapped head to toe in ancient-looking armor, far older than the plate that the Order wore, an archaic thing of a pointed helmet, and a veil of mail that draped across his face and shoulders, obscuring his identity. The party drew up short, all of them unarmed against this strange specter atop his imperious mount, yet Sister Brenan strode forward resolutely.

"I seek Grandmother's house, I have been once before," she said, and the Rider in White seemed to tilt his head in recognition, staring into her for a long moment, the two points of ivory light where his eyes should be like blazing torches as he then took in each of them -- seeming to linger upon Gram for an uncomfortably long moment, before finally coming to Lidia. She felt that gaze boring into her well before she met his eyes, and in them she saw an intensity. A sense of regret and fervent loyalty seemed to wreath the man like the cold in the air, the frost gleaming off his armor as he stared at her longest of all. There were no words, he simply raised one arm, and pointed towards the far side of the twisting road.

There was a way forward. No pomp nor circumstance, where there was naught but impassible, thickening trunks and gnarled roots high as a man -- there was a way beyond. Many ways in fact, the wood opened up to them in totality all around them in the space of a blink. No path back the way they came, no road well-trod as they'd been walking this time. In a moment's thought, they were lost in the ancient, deep wood of the sidhe -- its very earth and trees having simply obliged to engulf them, bind them to their task. The message was clear: no turning back.

In that same moment, the Rider was gone. He had been there one moment, and with a turn of the head, a distraction of a sound, for all present he simply was lost in the curve of a trunk, the dead fingers of a reaching branch, or the arch of a primordial root. As if he'd never been there at all.

"Oh, shite," Lidia swore, gathering her hood and cloak close around her. The chill of the air had become sharp, and she felt as if they were still being watched, an itchy, terrible sensation of eyes upon her flesh, staring through her clothes and flesh at her beating heart.

"Be at peace, this is a good sign, The Rider has accepted our passage -- but we must needs find our way beyond," Brenan said and reached into the cart and its small collection of effects, and out of them she drew the small hand-stitched doll, pausing a moment to smooth its hair and dress into order. Walking ahead of the group, Sister Brenan knelt down and drew out the silver pin from the offerings as well, she turned her head tot he group.

"Lidia, I need ye."

Jolted out of her feeling of fear, the little changeling hurried forwards, skirting wide around the cart, watching Gram's breath hitch even as she closed that minor distance, her heart wrenching as she put her eyes forward, coming to a crouch near Brenan.

"What do ye nee-OW!" She swore, as Brenan wasted no time and simply stabbed the pin into her hand, straight into the meaty web between her thumb and forefinger, causing the little changeling to recoil and snarl in pain, putting her mouth to the tiny, seeping wound. The needle itself stained halfway with her own bright, red blood. No time wasted, Brenan then speared the pin down into the doll, right into where its heart would be, the blood staining its simple sackcloth body in a spreading web of red.

It then quite promptly came alive.

"What interesting blood this one has."

Lidia jerked backwards, but Sister Brenan seemed nonplussed as the little doll clambered to its careworn feet and looked down at itself, its stitched mouth turning upwards in a smile.

"Oh, this has been well-loved by many children, very good," it cooed in a voice that was oddly childlike and feminine, perhaps to match the doll -- or the doll matched the voice, it was hard to tell. The pin stayed in the doll, its head peeking out like a badge as it hopped down from Brenan's hands to the ground, trotting over to Lidia with its mitten-like hands on its hips.

"Your blood is sweet, and very interesting, child of summer," it chirped at her, its face seeming to fold in a furrowed expression; "This doll and it are pleasing though, come now. Don't dawdle or you'll stay here forever!" it crowed with an unnerving little laugh, and then took off into the woods at a quick pace -- for something with legs the length of fingers.

"You heard her, away!" Brenan said, turning back to muster the cart. Lidia blanched a bit, and Brenan quite plainly swatted her on the rear, getting her moving with a yelp.

"It is not my blood on that pin, away little Bloodhound!" she instructed sternly, the donkey braying irritably and starting up from the rutted stop, the knobby, root-laden ground troubling its steps as Brenan and her fellow sisters worked with Martin to push it forward regardless. Lidia hesitated a moment more, then spied the little doll starting to veer away, and she set off after it -- the cart and Gram's comatose form only a few long strides behind.

"Run, Run, Run, Child of Summer! Grandmother's house is this way, or is it that way? Who can say?" it chirped and Lidia nearly lost sight of the scampering little creature in the roots and growingly-thick trunks. Each of the massive trees so close together now that in many places they'd grown wound together, twisting, embracing and writhing upwards into almost a single forest-spanning entity. The compacted loam forming paths over roots that tangled and netted together into a literal carpet of seeking, strangling tendrils.

"Hurry, Hurry, the wood is hungry and the cold is setting the table!" it teased in that girlish voice, Lidia felt like the roots were shifting, reaching up to grab her legs with errant branches, snag her footsteps and foul her movement. She couldn't keep sight on the creature... but then she remembered, she didn't have to. She glanced down at the scabbing wound on her hand, and closed her eyes.

She had other senses. She knew her own scent.

Like a trail of rubies through the murk, she breathed deep, latching onto the scent of her own blood on that pin, and she followed it doggedly. Behind her she could still spy the struggling cart having to cut around trunks and rooted obstructions to keep her in sight, but she couldn't lose the little ragdoll now. She grinned in spite of herself, little Bloodhound indeed. The chase narrowed, the doll's laughter was joyous and haunting, a child's laughter as she played with a turtle upon its back. Pure, and oddly cruel.

"Come, come, Child of Summer! You are swift of foot and keen of nose, a good hound... or are you a fox in the henhouse? Curiouser and curiouser!" it chirped, and Lidia's nose guided her to its little sackcloth body leaning cheekily around a tree before vanishing with a new giggle -- it was playing with her. This thing was enjoying itself!

"What do ye mean Child o' Summer?" she spat, hurdling another too-large root that almost seemed to raise itself purposefully in her path, the tittering voice came back.

"It's what you are! Not born of winter's hunger, nor spring's brevity, but the burning ambition of summer!"

"That dinnae make any sense!" She complained and then paused a moment as she skipped over another tangle of roots "... What am I doin', I'm arguin' with a doll," she groused under her breath as she continued to cut and wind through the woods. The doll wasn't really trying to lose her, and it was guiding her along a path that was wide enough for the cart and Gram's supine form -- it was just doing so in the most... fun way it could, it seemed. Fun for it, at least. Its laughter again signaled its answer.

"It makes all the sense in the world if you have eyes to see!"

The doll's sing-song voice continued to banter nonsense at her as she followed, and at the precise moment she thought either she'd lose the doll or that her companions in the cart would lose sight of her, there was a cheeky, ringing little laugh and Lidia came up short to an open, wide area of the forest. The trunks spread wide and thin, the gnarled roots delved deeper into the ground, and the far distance faded into an obscuring, icy mist that set the air aglow with that faint half-light of winter fog or fresh snow. Behind her, the cart and her companions caught up as she rolled to a jog, the little doll scampering across a wide open area towards a gnarled, twisted tree -- nay, three trees -- rooted together so closely they had wound around each other in a three-way embrace before growing higher and higher, standing out even among the massive, bare trunks that rose all around them like wooden pillars, vanishing high into the all-encompassing canopy. At their base sat a flat, worn stone shelf propped up on a small cairn of stones. Lidia came up short as the doll ran up to the smoothed, stained surface and hopped up on it, bouncing giddily in place with ringing gales of childish laughter. Lidia paused... the stains were familiar. Her throat tightened as the doll's peals of laughter intensified and the scent came to her nose.

Blood. Old, old blood.

"Good, good! You chase well child of summer! But now, you're it!" it cheered at her with more laughter, its tiny sackcloth hand reaching up and pulling the bloody pin from its chest with a flourish and one final laugh, going suddenly stock still -- the life draining from its movements -- and falling flat onto the stone, the pin bouncing lightly as the clearing fell silent.

"What in th' Lady's White Teats was all that?" she hissed, kneeling down to peer at the now-still ragdoll with a paranoid intensity. The rattle of the cart came to a stop behind her with a sigh from Sister Brenan's lips.

"Language, child. She isn't that far from us," Brenan chided, kneeling near Lidia and looking at the stone with a nod, "You did well, she didn't bring me straight to the altar before. I had to wander, listening for laughter and taunts,"

"Altar!?" Lidia hissed, leaning back away from the blood-soaked stone, she could see it now. Flat and worn, the stone itself showing the scratches in a concentrated pattern around the center, the scars of many a different kind of blade. Many sacrifices, made by many different means. She leaned away from it, even going as far as to scoot back a few paces as the two Sisters approached her from behind with the rusty cleaver and knife... and the chicken, irritably clucking in its cramped cage.

"Martin," Brenan barked, the soldier raising his head -- his gaze wide and wary, the scarred man's face looking eerie in the pale ghostlight of the creeping mist, "Build a cookfire, use the spits in the cart, and make sure Gram is warm." she instructed, Lidia's entire body went rigid with alarm.

"We're stoppin' fer a rest?!" she snapped, scrabbling forward to push herself violently into Brenan's personal space, eyes two wide, green discs of fury and concern; "Gram's nae gonna last long enough fer some piddlin' about!"

Sister Brenan to her credit handled it coolly, and simply laid a hand on Lidia's chest and pushed her firmly away -- and down, forcing her to sit. She was strong, stronger than Lidia realized in her matronly frame... and of course she was, as the two younger sisters flanked her, Lidia realized she was likely the same as them. Trained as much in the blade as the scripture.

"Lidia, Gram will endure. The Rider in White has passed us into Grandmother Winter's demesne, he is her Day, as his brothers are her Evening and Night." she said, holding up three fingers. "We shall meet all of them on this endeavor if we are to be successful, Bright Day, Red Twilight, and Black Midnight." Lidia's face contorted in fresh rage.

"I dinnae care one whit about nae fookin' magical sparklin' ponies nae their riders, Gram is dyin'!" she spat and Brenan shook her head.

"You don't understand, we are in her Day now. Look around you, does anything strike you as odd?" she asked gently, and Lidia cast about fervently... and it started to dawn on her. The mist swirled, but the trees did not creak, the wind did not blow. There was no sound of animals, no sound of motion. Life. Continuity. It was a static place.

"... Nothin' is movin'... breathin', but us..." she ventured, and Brenan nodded.

"In Grandmother's Day, time stands at attention until Red Twilight rides across its realm, signaling the acceptance of darkness and the heralding of Black Midnight -- the witching hour. It is there we will meet Grandmother Winter, and until then we and all we bring with us are preserved, for neither good nor ill. If we displease her, we will wander this misty forest eternal, never aging, never resting, until we become like it. Simply mist and silence." she explained, and looked back to the cart, where Gram's chest continued to rise and fall.

"He will last in this eternal day, as long as he needs to."

Lidia relaxed some, though the looming thought of being lost in an eternal mad forest was less appealing, she felt that familiar tug of hope at her heart, just like when Bart was near, when he told her things would be well. Brenan was like that, she had that same fire. It comforted her in the chill mist. Brenan smiled and took her hand away, cupping Lidia's cheek.

"So full of fire, I have faith this will work. God smiles on bright souls like ye." she said and behind her, the strike of flint and steel brought a familiar smell of burning tinder, Martin's deft hands having assembled the included firewood and tinder in the cart, and ably set it ablaze.

"Fire's good, Sister. It'll be stoked properly in quarter glass." he said, his eyes alert, the man's whole demeanor like a coiled spring, or a poised predator. Gram's influence on his soldiers was subtle, but visible. Brenan nodded, Colette and Sabine both working near the altar as Brenan turned away.

"Grandmother is a being that demands equal sacrifice for worth. Like the woodcutter who gives his body's health for the lumber, or the soldier who bleeds for his country's safety, something must be given and then made good upon." she explained, taking the chicken from the cage. Lidia felt her heart sink a bit, the agitated hen seemed to calm in Brenan's hands as she soothed it, walking to the altar.

"A bounty must be given, to be received. It's sacrifice honored. A token made in exchange." she soothed the hen, kneeling before the altar. The fowl clucked softly and seemed to nestle down, unperturbed in the Sister's hands.

Right before those gentle hands suddenly, and authoritatively grasped it and twisted its neck with a loud, mortal crack.

It went slack without a sound or motion of protest, and Brenan took the cleaver and knife from the two sisters, which she then promptly used to hack off both its head, and feet. Hanging the bird up above the altar on a protruding branch that seemed to have grown specifically for that purpose... but the height suggested in the past it had been used for far more human sacrifices.

"Bury these," she said to Sabine, handing her the bloodied butchering tools after she'd finished gutting the bird. "The far side of the twisted tree, you will find a hollow. Don't question it, simply bury them there with the offal," she ordered, and Sabine nodded, moving with diligence as Brenan turned to Colette, "Setup the spit and spices, pluck the bird and set it to cook. Everyone must eat of it, all of it. Even Gram, as difficult as that will be."

Lidia sat back, stunned at the... gentle barbarity of the ritual. The three sisters worked diligently to prepare the meal, and Lidia sank back near the fire with Martin, eyes wide, feeling... scared. Lost. The scarred man offered her a cup, the smell of hot, mulled wine came to her nose and she eagerly took it with a smile and murmured thanks, sipping at the beverage as the cold mist swirled away from the heat of the growing flames. Martin simply nodded, sipping his own drink as his eyes scanned the horizon. Ever vigilant.

They remained like that, silence ruled. None felt up for much in way of conversation with the specters of the wood in quiet attendance. The bird came off the fire after a span of time only interrupted by the quiet breathing and the murmurs of prayers from the sisters, Lidia and Martin both seemed comforted by the devotion of the three women, Lidia herself was trying to find the same faith that she loved so dearly in Gram, and she caught the eyes of Sabine or Colette more than once as they took turns watching over the unconscious soldier, praying quietly for him. Their eyes smiled at her even if their lips were busy with the litanies, she felt an ache in her heart. Had this kind of warmth always been waiting for her, just past the walls of that stuffy old cathedral? That thought weighed heavily on her as Brenan took the spit and began carving the bird in earnest. Lidia's face rose and a thought crossed her mind, a desperate, hopeful thought.

"Sister... ye said that Grannie's day is keepin' Gram all together, right?" she asked in a small voice, the first sound in earnest made in what felt like hours. The churchwoman looked up and nodded, Lidia licked her lips and leaned closer, "Do ye mean... I cannae hurt him, by bein' close tae him again?"

Sister Brenan considered that a moment, and then she nodded once more, "He is in the same stasis we all are, short of dealing him direct harm, the magicks of your nature should be as arrested as any others that would be conjured here other than Grandmother Winter's own," she said, and hope sprang bright as the sun in Lidia's eyes.

"I... I'll handle th' feedin' o' my loverboy then... I... I want tae, nae... I need tae do it," she said, and Brenan gave her a long, steady look before it warmed with a smile, and she handed a small portion of the steaming bird to her.

"Very well, but ye eat first. I can see the toll this has taken on ye body as much as Gram's."

Lidia set into the meat with gratitude -- and a surprising hunger, as did everyone else. The journey seemed to have taxed everyone beyond their perceptions, as the whole party tucked into the bird with gusto until naught but well-cleaned bones and Gram's meager portion remained. Lidia slipped away from the group around the fire, the feel of the chill air bracing as she slid close to the cart and her comatose lover.

"Hey there, loverboy," she whispered, sitting on the edge of the wooden slats, she brushed her hand across his face, and he stirred in his unnatural slumber -- leaning towards her touch reflexively. Even on death's door, he seemed to realize it was her, and that clenched around her heart with a grip of chill iron. She sat there with him a long moment as she glanced up and watched the sisters working around the fire still, Brenan breaking the carcass down as Martin stoked the flames higher.

"I'm gonna take care o' ye, loverboy, dinnae ye worry yer handsome little head," she whispered just for him, settling deeper into the cart, and taking his head into her lap. He stirred again, and a faint moan escaped his lips... he didn't seem to be in pain, just wan and pale. Like a man bled-out or fished out of an icy lake. She sat there with him, like that, threading her fingers through his hair... she didn't feel the thrum in her belly, the burning craving was absent... and a strange part of her missed it. Oh she wanted him still, the desires for him still flitted around in her mind -- her heart fluttered as she stroked his cheek, but the intense hunger was quiet. She had grown so accustomed to that fervent desire and need that to be without it felt like a void, like part of her was missing. Part of her was in a way, she realized as she placed her hands on his shoulders, lifting his swaddled form with some effort partially upright. Her mother had made her this way, it was her legacy... her nature.

"C'mon loverboy, it's nae what I wish ye were doing with those pretty lips, but I need ye to eat a bit," she cooed to him, and took a sliver of the meat from the roasted bird and paused a moment, looking at it. A ripple of panic ran through her, how to get him to eat? She knew a few tricks for that, she'd tended a sick member of her little troop of cutpurses more than once -- but that had been broth and water, not solid meat. She cast her eyes back to the sisters, and found Brenan's eyes glancing up at hers expectantly, which only made her look away all the faster, she couldn't ask for help now, not without feeling entirely like the foolish girl she clearly still was. She wished for all the world in that moment that Martin had never come to find her, and she could still be herself, swaddled in White Glint's plumage, warm, safe and ignorant of this horror.

Inspiration struck her in that moment at the thought of the great hawk, and she looked down at the sliver of meat with a brief face of minor revulsion. Aye, there was a way to do it. Plainly, she popped the little sliver into her own mouth and began to chew.

"Ah whon't tell iffin' yeh dohn't," she slurred around the mouthful in a whisper only Gram's comatose form could hear as she chewed the mouthful to a fine mash, and then with him still semi-upright, tilted his head back to clear his throat's passage -- and she pressed her mouth to his. It wasn't the warm, inviting kiss she wanted, in fact it was more than a little disgusting as she pushed the chewed meat into his mouth, her hand sliding to his throat and gently massaging it -- but like the great mother bird who'd doted on her atop the fortress, she fed him like a baby bird, the well-chewed chicken finding its way down his gullet with the assistance of her tongue as the motions of her hands forced his comatose throat to close and swallow, working its way down into his belly. She drew her lips back from his, making a face... they were cool, not cold with death... but cool and limp, lacking the vigor and desire his mouth always had for her. It was not remotely amorous an interaction -- but it was intimate, and it had worked.

"Clever," came a soft voice. Sabine's coffee-colored eyes met Lidia's as she looked up, the stout Sister having come to the cart, the remains of the military spit in her hands. Lidia first paled in horror, and then flushed a deep red as she wiped her mouth and Gram's both, hurridly lying him back down and avoiding the churchwoman's gaze.

"'Tis just what I 'ad tae do, couldn't very well shove a drumstick down his gob," she said hurriedly, and Sabine to her credit simply nodded and smiled, setting the spit aside and reaching into the cart and its small cache of supplies, and coming out with a small, egg-shaped object. It was made of gold, and etched with simple decorations in the motif of the rampant unicorn, two halves secured by pins, each half studded with neat arrangements of holes. A chain suspended it from the top, and it took Lidia a moment to recognize it as a censer -- something she'd seen the clergy use from afar in a whole manner of rituals and ceremonies she didn't understand.

"Your devotion to him is admirable, I will not mock you for the discomforts that causes, be not afraid," the sister said, her voice surprisingly rich and delicate despite her clearly athletic, dangerous build. She sounded like any other girl of twenty-odd summers, not a battle-hardened warrior-monk. Lidia relaxed at that... she would never get used to how bloody earnest the churchfolk were.

"I... thank ye, that... means a lot from one o' ye," Lidia said honestly, laying Gram down completely after she was sure his somnambulant form had fully swallowed the bit of chicken, not daring to risk the trick twice. Sabine smiled and nodded again, eyes to Gram.

"Perhaps one day, I will know such singular devotion, until then I shall do my best to safeguard your own," she said, and simply turned back to her own work, carrying the censer over to where Brenan worked with the fire.

Lidia settled back with Gram after that, taking his head in her lap again and simply wrapping herself in his presence, his long hair had come undone its thong in all of the commotion and spread out across her legs and lap in glossy silken sheets. Oh how she loved his hair -- granted, she loved all of him, but she had special consideration for each part. Threading her fingers through it, she took the time to pull it away from his face, untangling it from the mess of his bedding. She lacked a comb, but her slim fingers raked any major tangles and snarls free easy enough. It took her little time to return it to a neat tail at the base of his neck -- a ritual they had done together many times, many other mornings since they'd come to Fort Ivory, she enjoyed aiding him in his grooming, any excuse to touch him, to be close to the taciturn, self-sufficient warrior.

"I'll fix ye up loverboy, I promise," she murmured to him, stroking his face anew, lowering her own down to it, this time letting her lips find his own in a proper kiss, a soft, chaste thing free of all the fire and hunger her errant nature had caused... and in a way, it was all the sweeter. No ardent need colored the touch, just her own love for this man whom had given so much for her and asked naught but exactly that in return: love. Aye, she loved him, loved him with every piece of her, not just the hungry ghost of her mother creeping and crawling beneath her skin, "I'll make ye whole, like ye did me. I'll make ye right once more, iffin' I have tae pay it in blood and flesh, I'll see those pretty robin's egg eyes again, starin' at me with all th' little bits o' warmth ye save and scrimp jus' fer me."

Behind her, there was a clatter of tools, and she found herself pulled from the intimate reverie by curiosity, turning her head, she saw Brenan stirring the fire to a cherry smolder of coals, the smell of cooking fowl came to her nose again as she peered closer -- the bones of the carcass had been mixed into the campfire's own ashes, and stoked back up to a merry red glow. Brenan caught her eye as she looked on curiously, and nodded, scooping the coals and the chicken's own bones into the censer's soot-scoured chamber before closing it.

"The way forward will be shown by the bone's burning," Brenan explained to Lidia's unasked question written plainly across her face as Sabine took the censer and held it aloft, smoke pouring out thick and greasy as the wet marrow caught in the cherry-hot burn of the woodfire, creating a thick, oily smoke that wafted through the air in dense, nearly solid tendrils of sooty black that wound through the air... wound, twisted, and flowed, unnaturally so. As Sabine walked forward at the head, swinging the censer to and fro before her like she would at a ritual mass, the wisps from within did not merely disperse and spread -- they snaked out with purpose, pulled on invisible contrails of arcane wind. Forward it went, and through the trees, it traced a path.

"Well that's it then, Martin, the cart," Sister Brenan instructed and the scarred soldier leapt to his feet with aplomb, moving to the seat by Lidia and giving the stodgy mule a little click of his tongue and a nudge of its reins, setting it to walking through the woods. Lidia jostled along with Gram as the cart rolled forward, the three sisters forming the vanguard of their little band -- the snaking smoke leading them through the sprawling mist-choked maze of empty trunks. The gentle crawl became a mile-eating canter with little effort, as if by following the contrails of soot and smoke the grip of the magical wood loosened, the trees growing further apart, the ground growing smoother, and the pace increasing. After not long at all, the group of soldiers and clergy were moving at speed, a full march in pursuit of their goal. Lidia felt her heart soar, grinning down at Gram.

"I told ye loverboy, we'll make it right."

As if in response, rather than from Gram, the reply came instead from the woods themselves. The journey's silence was interrupted by a faint clatter. A click-clack of rhythmic motion, a cantering set of hooves. As a whole -- all present turned their head to the side of their path, and as quick as a blink, in the loss of sight of a passing trunk and a tangle of twigs -- was yet another Rider.

Red, brilliant, bloody red was the hue and chroma of this ghostly cavalier. From hoof to mane the beast he rode was the color of bright cochineal ink and fresh spilled blood on the whitest cloth. Unnaturally crimson, its eyes like pools of incarnadine fire, the man itself was no different -- its armor the same ancient, archaic style as the White Rider from before, all draping mail and banded slats of steel over leather and cloth, topped by a conical helm and veil of the same glittering chain -- enameled totally in red and gleaming silvery metal studs -- all except for his eyes. As had been with the previous rider, deep within the mailed cowl were but two icy points of white light that lumed with a fierce intellect and unyielding, unnatural strength. It paced them placidly, the Rider's body language sedate and at peace, and it simply nodded its head at them once.

And then it was gone. Simply gone -- a trunk passed between them, and like passing beyond curtains on a stage, it merely vanished from sight without so much as a word or ceremony.

The change was subtle at first, the smokey trail swirled, as if some child had grabbed it like a thread, swinging it in a swirling circle around the party, carried on a buffeting, gentle wind that bore the same rime-kissed cold of oncoming winter as the presence of the previous rider. The promise of snow danced on it, carried by the same mischievous zephyr that then zipped off at speed into the distance, drawing the trail of smoke ahead of them thick and unnatural -- marking the way forward.

It was then that the light changed. The gray, unnatural fog began to lift and the chilly ghostlight of a winter's day darkened, warmed in color if it would not in feel as the forest changed around them step by step, darkening with the bloody red hue of sunset, casting a ruddy glow across the forest floor as the isolated trees receded, and the walls of the great, primeval trunks closed in, wrapping them in a wooden embrace, folding tighter and tighter until even the red light of twilight was slowly choked and faded into an arboreal catacomb wrought of root and branch.

"Well, that's just downright unnatural," Martin murmured, his breath misting in front of his face as he pulled his cloak tighter about him, Lidia mirroring the gesture before a firm hand caught hers -- Brennan gently, but firmly pulled her away from the cart.

"Come away from Gram, Lidia, Bright Day's long noon is fading, and with it does the eternal now. Gram won't be protected from you for much longer, not until Grandmother Winter has her say," she said, and the little changeling's face twisted in reflexive agony, she cast her gaze to the pale man, and desperately curled her fingers in his swaddling, not wanting to let go. A deep breath steadied her, and instead she leaned down and kissed his mouth one more time... perhaps the last time, while he still drew breath.

"Aye... aye, ye know better..." she admitted with humility and misery in her voice, wrapping herself tighter in her cloak as she sprang down and away, pushing to the front of the march once more, the darkness not as total to her sidheborn sight. Shades of gray visible to her gleaming green eyes, drawing her deeper into the darkness... deeper, further, it called to her... she ranged ahead as the party gathered itself, Martin and the sisters settling into the cart as the now level, clear ground made the going easier. Sabine and Colette doting and caring for Gram's comatose form, Brenan's eyes down at the task lighting a simple lantern. All at once... Lidia felt a woman apart, the cause of all of this. The darkness offered answers, hope. She pressed into it, seeking, eyes wide and determined.

It wasn't until she'd felt the silence more than heard it, that she realized she was alone.

Whirling in place, she saw nothing but trees, trunks, and infinite blackness -- lit only by the faintest red twilight that filtered down through the dense canopy with a wan, gory glow that cast everything in the faintest hue of crimson beneath the oppressive blanket of ebon-gray. The cart was gone, Martin, Brennan and the Sisters.... Gram. Her throat clenched with fear, with anger, and she took in a deep breath, primed to hurl venom and spite at the blackness, vitriol boiling in her like pitch. It took an effort of will and clenched fangs to stay in place... this had to be more of this Grandmother Winter's magic, she had been teasing and testing them, forcing them to play by her rules. Lidia hated it.

It was then she saw him. Her eyes widened, and it felt as if the gleaming green glow would give off its own light in the pervading blackness so wide was her gaze.

He was mere fingerbreadths from her, at her side in sedate, attentive pace. Another Rider... this one however, was different. He was black, black in a way that nothing else was. Her eyes adjusted as they were to the darkness, even empowered by her own fae lineage -- only saw him as a deeper darkness within the gloom, a totality of shadow so stark that he had no form, no shape, but was but living shadow, a silhouette living apart its body.

Except for those eyes. Those piercing white eyes.

THE DARKNESS RECOGNIZES YOU CHILD OF SUMMER.

The voice was shapeless, formless... like when the Empty Queen had spake into her mind, and yet it was gentle unlike her fell presence. It whispered into her mind the shape of words, the concept of speech more than it did her ears. She quailed from him... but felt no malice, no sinister intent from the figure. Even his horse was so black as to be featureless, truly he was invisible in the gloom to all but those who knew the deeper darkness.

"... A-aye... I'm passin' familiar with it as well," she stammered at first, finding that the Rider was pacing her... in a companionable fashion, its gait casual, sitting the saddle as an old friend might to look down upon her.

YOU HAVE THE MARKS OF IT'S TEETH UPON YOU, WELL-SCARRED AND WELL-HEALED. IN THAT, WE ARE COMPANIONS TRUE.

"Ye... ye're Black Midnight, aren't ye?" she asked, wonder and curiosity driving her fear down into a nervous knot in her belly. Almost imperceptibly, the shadow inclined its head, and with a similarly subtle gesture it carried forward into the red-tinged shadows, twilight seeming to shrink from the sheer weight of the shadow at her side.

"So what is this?" she asked after a moment's silence, walking at the Black Rider's side, its matte-black form turning that icy white gaze on her inquisitively; "Another o' the Grandmother's tests, tricks? Like the wee doll or th' chicken bones?"

FANCIES AND FOIBLES OF MINE BROTHERS, THEIR ROLE IS TO WARD OFF THE UNWORTHY AND PUNISH THE IMPOLITE. MINE ROLE IS FAR SIMPLER.

"Simple, is it?" she asked, huddling into her cloak as they paced one another. It strange, the creature's presence at her side was not unnerving, not uncomfortable in spite of all of the trappings of darkness and dismal things -- she felt familiar with it -- and it seemed similarly familiar with her.

I POSE BUT A QUESTION, AND A WARNING.

"Oh aye? Let's have the warnin' then, Lady knows it's dark enough fer it."

The Rider seemed to chuckle at that... or rather, she was given the concept of a low cackle somewhere near her ear, the easy form of the black-on-black figure rocking slightly.

BE NOT PROUD WITH THE GREATMOTHER, BUT NEITHER BE AFRAID. BE EARNEST, AND SPEAK FRANKLY -- AND SHE SHALL RETURN THE SAME TO THEE.

Lidia considered that, she had heard of Bart dealing with such creatures during his tales about the Glade, when he and the Erlking had exchanged harsh words. There was a way of speaking to them, they were in a way, like animals -- they would prey upon weakness. Looking back in the darkness towards where she had left her loverboy, swaddled and cold, she shivered herself and it had nothing to do with the chill in the air. Predators indeed.

"Aye... aye, ye should be polite tae ye Grandmother..." she mused, walking alongside this creature easily now, looking up at his wraithlike form with wide, luminous eyes, "... Whatever kind o' question could ye 'ave for somethin' as common as meself?" she asked honestly, the weight of her trials, of her life and its travails putting a slight quaver in her voice. The figure regarded her steadily. His voice came to her again, a seeming, a feeling of a man's guilt murmured to her mind.

DO YOU LOVE WITH YOUR HEART, OR DO YOU LOVE WITH YOUR HURTS?

The question was so simple, so direct that it rocked her to one side, the cold forgotten as she looked down at the blackness where her feet were only barely visible, turning her hands up to her gaze -- remembering a similar place, remembering the black, glassy gleam of blood on those hands. The screams of the dying and the roars of the unnatural. Down at hands that were too small to carry a knife, hands shaking in fear in the dark as cruel men with cruel intentions searched for her. At hands wet with tears in a dark house, suddenly, terribly alone. She had so many hurts.

I WAS A MAN ONCE, A STRONG MAN. I CAME TO KNOW MY HURTS WELL AND MY HEART POOR. I MADE MANY CHOICES BY TELL OF HURTS RATHER THAN HEART, AND IN THE END I WAS UNDONE IN THE ATTEMPT TO FILL A EVER WIDENING GYRE.

There was a sense of sadness in the seeming, a flavor of regret that flooded her own mouth as she did not hear so much as feel the language that echoed in her mind. It was familiar, but both her own and not. She looked up at him, and tears flowed down her cheeks, the seeming of words spelled across her mind again as their eyes met.

DO YOU LOVE WITH YOUR HEART, OR DO YOU LOVE WITH YOUR HURTS CHILD OF SUMMER? YOU CANNOT DO BOTH.

She crumbled and the sob wracked her, the familiar creature was a comfort and she fell onto the side of his steed with a piteous mewl, bawling her eyes out into the creature's inky pelt. A cold but gentle hand laid on her head as she wailed into the darkness -- all of the hurt in her hurt boiling out of her, pouring from her eyes and mouth as tears and gnashing of teeth. She had hurt so, so badly, so often. She had poured things into that gaping, hungry maw of pain. She had nursed that hurt so long... fed it, kept it close to her. The Black Rider's hand was a comfort, a familiar coldness... he had been with her all this time hadn't he? Her very shadow, the darkness of the night alone with pain.

"I love him!" she declared, eyes full of tears and the green radiance of her unfortunate birth, "I love him because he wants me heart, all o' it -- the ugly, monstrous bits an' the silly girl crushes, he dinnae ask o' me naught but me heart, so I 'ave tae love him with it!" she declared, sinking down against the Black Rider's horse again, sobbing anew.

"I... need tae save him, even iffin' I ne'er see him again, iffin' it kills me... I love him, an' I'll love him from far away, hurts an' all iffin' it means he lives!" she cried, and the Rider's impassive gaze offered her nothing by way of response... but his hand smoothed her hair, and gently he pushed her away from his saddle.

THEN GO CHILD OF SUMMER. LOVE WITH YOUR HEART.

It was then that she blinked away the last of her tears, wiping her eyes -- she saw a warm, cool glow take the darkness from her sight. Turning towards it, she saw the pale circles of the Twin Maiden Moons pouring down from breaks in the canopy over a small clearing -- just enough wan, silvery light to push back the veil of shadows and light up a tiny, ramshackle fence and a well-worn, rutted path of irregular cobbles leading up to it. She blinked, and turned to the Rider, thanks on her lips...

... and saw nothing. The inky black shadow, the comforting, companionable darkness gone but for a rapidly melting touch of frost on her red hood.

"LIDIA!" came a cry, Martin all but fell over himself, running to her from... nowhere, she blinked as he crashed into her, crushing her in a brotherly embrace, blinking away the glare from Brenan's lantern as she saw... the cart, Gram, the sisters -- all but a few dozen paces behind her, right where she'd left them.

"I... dinnae understand..." she said and Martin's scarred face was a mask of palpable relief.

"You just walked into the darkness and were... gone! Like a puff of smoke! It took both Sabine and Colette to keep me from tearing after you into this thrice-cursed wood!" he said, his eyes red... had he been crying as well? "The Captain would never forgive me if I let the damnable fae take you."

"I love ye too, Martin," she laughed, squeezing him tightly, getting a grin and a chuckle from the churchman before she pulled away, looking back at the strange little clearing -- a yard, really. The rickety fence was ancient, and made of wicker and gut-twine with a creaky gate... but it fenced off nothing. The Entire area was wreathed in the massive, ancient trunks of the primeval forest, so deep and gnarled here that their roots and branches grew together in a great, cancerous conglomerate organism that was so thick as to not let even a single man walk between them, a fibrous, woodsy wall that blocked out sound, light, and nosy intruders... but for what?

"The gate is open, and not for I, Lidia," Brenan said, stepping closer to her -- the warm light of her lantern welcome and joyous. "I've been through it once before, for the same reasons as you."

"Love?" Lidia asked bluntly, and the older woman smiled tightly.

"Love," She agreed, wiping a streak of tears from the little changeling's cheek, "Once upon a time, a little girl from a poor village lost her father to the wood, her mother to sickness, and had naught but her brother remaining until he too -- fell ill in his heart. A sickness of soul and mind. That little girl made a deal, and her brother was to live forever -- long lost from her." she said, and let out a quiet sigh, looking off to the distance winsomely. "That little girl asked the local wisewoman, and she told her what I have told you now, brought her to this place, with a sick man in tow."

Lidia's gaze tracked to Brenan's, and she saw far beyond the little empty yard, perched at the edge of the trees, the Black Rider, his comfortable familiarity even this far away did not fade. Brenan's own eyes gleamed with tears, but her smile was genuine.

"Was he cold?" she asked Lidia quietly, and the little changeling nodded.

"... Only in his touch, he made me feel... safe."

"He always did."

There was a long pause, and for a heartbeat longer than one would expect, the figure lingered in the distance, before an errant twitch of the eye or catch of the breath forced a blink, and he was gone.

"Is that why ye..." Lidia began quietly, and Brenan's breath came in a decisive intake.

"Yes. A child's adventures became grown-woman mistakes and atonements. I am never far from the wood, and that suits the doughty souls at Fort Ivory just fine." she answered tersely, an old, well-healed and familiar ache to the brevity of her voice. Lidia closed her mouth on the rest of her words, the elder Sister wiping her eyes.

"It is old pain, a child's pain and an adult's burden, a lifetime has passed since I stood before this fence..." she said and her voice was tight, but there was a humor to it, "... I recall it being taller."

"I'm guessin' there's more tae it than a bit o' empty yard?" Lidia ventured quietly, Brenan nodded and drew the others back.

"That is not for me this time, it waits for you. You have been given passage, we may only follow if invited." she said softly, gently pushing the little changeling forward, "Go through, child."

Lidia's eyes could not be wider as she stared at the empty yard and it's wicker fence. An uncanny sense of foreboding fell over her as she stepped forward, wishing for all the world for a weapon, for her blade -- that thought gave her pause, hand outstretched for the gate -- when had she begun to think like that? When had she stopped running from danger, hiding in the shadows until it passed? She was frozen there a moment, eyes flicking across the middle distance as her mind raced across recent events, across all the times she instead of ran, fought. She still wasn't running.

With a firm grasp, she pulled the gate open, stepping through it to it's ancient, worn cobblestone walk. The air was silent as she looked about, standing but a healthy few strides from where a porch ought to be on any other yard. Yet nothing. Silence. She turned, mouth open to protest, to question, eyes wide with misunderstanding rather than apprehension now -- when she heard it.

Crunch.

It was the sound of bending branches and crackling bark. It came from above her, and indeed the sound drew, nay demanded her attention upwards. In the great shadow of the upper canopy, a shape moved, a deeper shadow within the darkness descending, and with it came those rhythmic, grinding sounds. One after another. Lidia found herself rooted to the spot, by nothing else other than her own wide-eyed wonder and nameless, primal terror, like that which washed over her in the presence of Humbaba and the Empty Queen -- her mortal soul rebelling against the oppressive presence of the immortal -- and from the shadows emerged but one limb.

A leg. It gleamed with cruel, avian talons, ancient and worn, and its digits were lined in pale yellow scutes and scales, battered with scars and the ravages of time. It was an enormous, deadly... chicken leg. A second one emerged into view as the first bit down into one of the trunks, grasping it for leverage, digging those massive man-sized talons into it's ancient bark for purchase as its mate moved lower, bringing into view the full body of the thing.

A hut. A simple, well-worn, hut with a high peaked roof of shale and walls of ancient stacked timber thick with creepers and lichen that grew from the mass of earth that hung from it's base -- and from which the two massive chicken legs sprouted. It moved like some kind of massive spider, the legs working in concert and impossible strength to lever the house through the treetops, it could have been following them above with total impunity. The yard made sense now, as it descended, the empty lot had a clear depression where the massive knot of roots and earth clearly rested, mixing with the massive pinions and down of the fowl-like limbs, to give the entire thing a foreboding _living_quality, as if the house itself were peering down at them from it's glowing windows, the smoke trailing from it's hearth giving the impression of a disdainful puff of a pipe.

The chicken-legged structure came to rest on the earth, flexing its talons irritably as it shook the house a little, shifting it's shutters until they swung open, the chimney puffing up a new black cloud of discontent as it settled itself down like an irate hen at egg collection, fluffing it's plumage and tucking it's legs beneath it until it settled -- with mind-boggling perfection -- into the little depression, the house heaving a single, great settling sigh as it grew still again.

Lidia had no words, no pithy comment, no wisecrack or witty phrase, she simply turned to the equally dumbstruck party -- save for Brenan of course -- and merely gestured with incredulity, what did one say to that? To a walking hut climbing down from the trees like a stodgy old hen and giving you the stinkeye?

"Knock, sweetling." Sister Brenan said, and Lidia turned and gave her an incredulous stare.

"Knock?"

"It's only polite."

Lidia closed her mouth on that -- she had a point. With visible trepidation she turned towards the hut, it was... odd. It seemed so mundane, but the deeper she gazed the more it seemed impossible, the age of the thing was worn in layers of lichen and dutifully-tended decay. The stones were freshly swept, the slate roof had not a single missing shingle, and the tin chimney with it's odd cone-shaped cover was battered but showed signs of being straightened and shaped anew time and again. A thousand tiny examples of the march of time being stymied by care met her gaze as she walked up to the wooden porch. It was a simple hut, in no style she truly recognized -- it had the tall, vaulted and shingled roof she associated with the Darrowmite side of Lachheim, but the heavy log-style walls that her own childhood home had been built from, and yet it was set on a foundation and porch of carved planks and a foundation of laid stones not unlike the houses she'd seen in the Middlelands deep within the woods. It was a strange piece of everywhere and nowhere packed into a tiny log cabin that seemed too small for one person, and yet too large at once -- too large indeed, as she approached, the door towered higher and higher, until she stood before it and it was at least half again the scale of a normal door... all of it was oddly off proportion, like an overgrown dollhouse. She looked back again, and gaining no more than a raise of Brenan's eyebrows and Martin's continued look of general gob-smacked incredulity she took a breath -- and just knocked.

She didn't expect much, didn't expect... anything really -- and that is what she received. Her knock went unanswered for a long moment, and then the door simply clicked open unceremoniously, a crack at first and she saw the slash of light across a single eye for a moment, and a small, feminine form.

"Oh, finally! I thought Greatmother would die of old age before you made it here!" came a small, childish voice -- the same she'd heard from the doll, and the door swung ajar, revealing a small female figure, just before the blush of womanhood, a maiden perfect and true... for what she could see, the girl giggled and bounced past her, a large basket in her arms, the item obscuring her face behind it as she skipped to the firewood pile stacked neatly on the porch... how hadn't it fallen when the hut was in motion?

"Ye... were waitin' for me?" she asked dumbly, and the little maiden laughed like tinkling bells.

"Of course! Greatmother always knows when she's expecting guests, but never if they'll be punctual!" she tittered, and as she moved... Lidia could not get a look at her, she wore a simple homespun dress befitting the cold climate with a long coat of unrecognizable style pulled over it, but every time she tried to see more than that, to glimpse her eyes or face... something got in the way. A turn of the basket in her arms, a piece of firewood, or a curve of the porch would obscure it. Lidia went as far as to step several paces to both sides of her, and each time she found herself blocked, the child's visage obscured by continuing, impossible happenstance.

"Come, come, no time to dawdle with me -- I am getting fresh wood for the stove, can't have visitors complaining of the cold!" she said cheerfully, hoisting the wicker basket full of split wood, it obscuring her face itself now as she went forwards.

"Wait... I 'ave questions lass!" Lidia said, and only got laughter in return.

"Of course you do, but not for me!" she said, skipping right along.

"Then for who? Who is this 'Greatmother Winter' and is she in there?" Lidia asked, leery of crossing the strange hut's threshold at all -- let alone by herself, the little girl turned, face still hidden but for a single gleaming eye so deep in shadow she could not even make out it's color.

"Why, Baba Yaga of course! This is her home, and you are expected and invited!" she said cheerfully as Lidia's eyes widened, the girl's laughter following her into the hut as Lidia looked back to her friends, Brenan nodding encouragingly at her with a terse but understanding smile. Lidia crossed the threshold, and behind her the door swung shut with a bang that drew a shout from her, the lock turned with no input from anyone and a loud thunk of the deadbolt swinging home.

Baba Yaga, even Lidia knew that name. A name of embittered woodsmen, hateful scorn, and well-placed fear. The Witch of the North Wood, the Winter Mother, the Queen of the Cold Months, she was cursed and praised in equal amounts by the men of the eastern marches that made their living in that rough frontier as the cause of many ills of the cold and the simple joys that rugged life gave them. The little changeling had always assumed they were tall-tales told by old woodcutters to assuage themselves against the grim yoke of their livelihood, or that she was another fae, some spirit like her mother.

Apparently, she had been right on both counts, terribly so.

"Ah, our guests have arrived, quick little one, stoke the fire," came another, mature voice. Lidia's gaze whipped around to the kitchen... and then it was forced upon her, the understanding of her surroundings.

They were large. Too large. Larger than the hut had been on the outside.

The hut's interior was easily two or three times what the humble exterior had promised, and yet still was laid out as one would expect. A cozy, single-room cabin, divided into places for work and rest, dominated in the center by a massive whitewashed, brick stove that ran straight up into the heavy tin-topped chimney she'd seem from the outside and then down into the stony foundation of the entire place. The little girl eagerly pushed the logs into the already crackling fire, raking the coals evenly as Lidia's gaze swept across the cabin in search of the other voice. Everything was like the door, of a scale ill-befitting, too large, the girl having to reach tip-toes to rake the back of the stove. The stove itself dominated the interior, the great, brick and clay edifice was the central fixture of the entire house, with two semi-circular hearths built adjacent to one another, all a faded off-white, stained a near-gray hue by ages of soot and use. The top of the rectangular oven was laid out with blankets and pillows -- a Steppes tradition from the Darrowmite lowlands, but even that touch of familiarity felt alien in its surroundings, a curtain and ladder descending from it's left side declared it a private sleeping space, beneath it a bench with odd amenities stacked in pots and baskets. To the same side sat the 'kut' as she remembered her father calling it upon visiting some of their Steppes neighbors -- a curtained-off area where womenfolk did their business of dressing, birthing, and washing as well as mended and minded things apart from the toil of menfolk. It was all shadowy, no lanterns were lit near there, and the left side of the cabin dwelled in cool shadow. Past the curtain beyond, she saw the gleam and hum of a spinning wheel at work, but her attention was yanked away from the shadow beyond the curtain by a delicate cough.

Her gaze tracked to the right hurriedly, to a tall table that crossed the space in between the far wall and the stove's central location, forming a neat, square kitchen area full of hanging herbs and dangling pots and pans, a forest of cutlery swinging sharp and gleaming from hooks in the ceiling. In that area stood a tall woman, tall and proud -- her frame was that of a square-shouldered, full-hipped woman in her prime, with the softness of motherhood behind her but not forgotten -- and she too, had her face somehow gamely obscured, the pots, pans and dangling blades all concealing all but a gleam of an eye or a flash of a smile as she set about chopping a fresh bunch of herbs with a large, gleaming cleaver. No matter how Lidia turned her gaze, she too stayed just beyond sight, surreptitiously blocked from view by more than mere happenstance.

"Don't be rude, girl, take your boots off before you tromp the whole forest across our floors!" the Mother chided her, and Lidia looked down at her dirt and rime-kissed boots, and hurriedly toed out of them, where the little girl darted in, her hair a wild mess about her face, hiding all but an impish grin in it's muss and fuss as she took the soft walking boots and tucked them into a little cubby at the base of the stove made for just such a thing, three pairs of shoes already comfortably ensconced there... each increasingly large, the last enormous, ogre-sized. Her attention turned back to the motherly woman at the kitchen counter.

"Ma'am... Iffin' ye dinnae mind, I need tae speak to... to B-Baba Yaga, it's urgent, deathly so!" she begged, stammering over the name... something about speaking it herself, in earnest drew upon a deep well of primal discomfort in her heart, a fairy tale made flesh was something she was not yet accustomed to, and wonder warred with terror in her soul. She heard, more than saw the knowing smile as the woman continued chopping -- her hands were unnaturally precise, the cleaver falling with headsman-like force again and again.

"Don't be rude," she chided again, this time with more weight on the words, "Sit, warm yourself, and uncover your head indoors, child." she admonished her with such natural authority that Lidia found herself reflexively snatching her hood back from her hair. The matronly woman's smile flashed in the reflections of the pots, but nowhere her gaze could see directly.

"Sit, please."

There was more than authority in that phrase, the words landed in time with a final, deafening chop of the cleaver, demanding her attention. It was a command... and Lidia found herself unable to resist, moving away from the woman as she found... that the latter half of the cabin was suddenly not so bare and empty, and the kut was now empty. Lidia blanched as she saw the shadowy edge of the cabin was no longer bare, a high-backed chair sat in the far corner, near the window flanked by a end table covered in the accouterments of a dozen crafts, yawn and knitting needles, a mortar and pestle, and a dozen small tomes and scrolls. Both were, as Lidia blinked in realization, massive. Fully on a scale for something twice the height of a man, and cast in the chill darkness of midnight, the flickering light of the kitchen and hearth only serving to add a warm counterpoint to the cool shadows.

In that shadow of that great, towering chair. A flame flared, a rushlight struck to life seemingly by naught but the flick of iron-hard nails, it lowered to a straight-stemmed pipe, where leathery lips puffed at it with the ease of decades, nay centuries of practice.

"Sit, child. I will not crane my neck about for Kings nor Fools, and you are neither."

The voice struck her with the force of a siege engine, her guts turned to water and her bones to jelly as the lit tinder was brought low once more, lighting a lantern on the wide end table -- more of a desk she saw now, casting a glow about the cabin, all at once... she realized she was alone, the Maiden and Mother seemingly gone, and now she stood before the Crone.

She was immense, the glow of the lantern grew as hands that were too large, too long turned the shutters just-so to allow for a warm, almost inviting glow. Lidia hurried to sit, but her eyes did not waver from the sight. The chair... no, in the proper glow of the fire she recognized it for what it was -- immense and stately, it was carved clearly from many things, but chief among them was bone, bones of men and beasts, woven together with living roots and many utilitarian bundles of herbs and drying skulls and teeth.

A Throne, and upon it... sat the Queen of Winter.

She was as stated, immense, easily thirteen spans tall and simply... larger. Not the gross, misshapen gangling height of a Ghul or the odd too-long limbs of common human 'giants', but simply... built at a larger scale. Her head was as large as Lidia's shoulders across, her hands of a size to palm her head. The pipe that sat in her teeth had a bowl that could have served as an actual soup tureen for the common soldier, and the long comfortable gown and shawl she wore could have served as an adequate tent. She was a giantess, and the massive door and oddly-scaled items all at once made perfect, horrible sense. The chair she was offered was ancient-looking and well-worn, Lidia sat in it, and she got a sense that she was seated where many, many, many other had sat before, the chair's wood and cushions well-worn by the press of ages and the weight of the needy and ambitious.

Baba Yaga drew from her pipe, and regarded her. Lidia did the same, the ancient woman raised an eyebrow, seemingly allowing the little changeling her gawking. Immense she was, and also terrible... yet not ugly, not as one would expect. No one part of her was ugly, no singular feature was horrid. She had a sharp, straight jaw, bright, vivid eyes, high, angular cheekbones and a mouth that held the ghost of fullness of youth. Her nose was long and bent but it was striking and well-proportioned... but they were like features from a half-dozen different faces, all joined together and welded firmly by the coke and heat of time and effort. She was terrifying to look upon, intense and almost comically detailed, every line of her face was stark, every wrinkle and crease of flesh too-clear, too-defined, as she moved it was like there was extra motion, extra movement to her bones and flesh, as if reality itself flowed more clearly around her, defining her in some extra, unknowable dimension beyond depth, width and length. She smiled and it was not a pretty thing, her teeth were sharp like daggers, and they gleamed black, black as volcanic glass. Her eyes were seemingly blind, milky and covered in cataracts -- and yet she saw Lidia clearly, staring at her in the way a lazing cat might a mouse. Hair white as snow gathered about her shoulders, full and voluminous, a blasphemous comparison came to Lidia's mind of Cithara's own divine mane, bound in loose braids that flowed down her shoulders, and framed her terrifying visage in bone-adorned ringlets as she raised her chin, and exhaled a great plume of smoke. She inhaled, and Lidia got the sense that she was _scenting_her, the twitch of her large, hooked nose not unlike her own when she was on the hunt.

"Ahh, the blood of summer and the red-maned men of the east. The stink of the divine... and... dare I say..." she closed her eyes and seemed to inhale once more, one eye opening with a wicked sort of glee.

"Love. Fresh, new love."

Lidia shuddered, and her eyes looked up at the giantess, wide and fearful. Her questions died in her throat, in this woman she saw... power. Not like she had seen in the monsters, men, or divine -- this was power. Power taken, Power sought and secured, not granted. There was no service in this creature's gaze nor poise, no one it hailed as master and none whom it deigned worthy to worship it. She took another drag and parted her lips to speak, the smoke sliding between her savage teeth like the forgotten wisps of damned souls.

"Tell me child, why a Seelie changeling comes to my door, with a man she has drank to the brink of death, and one I have told ne'er to return?" she asked, and her voice was deep and cold as the grave, and that eyebrow raised anew.

"Tell Baba Yaga why she should not simply eat you."