Mara

Autumn in the northern lands of Rus was drawing to a close. The forest was gradually losing its final colors, a cold wind chased fallen leaves across the ground, and heavy clouds obscured the setting sun. In the distance, beyond the hills and thick spruce thickets, lay the village of Berestye. It was surrounded by wooden palisades, fields, and ancient groves that the local folk had worshipped long before the first shrines were ever built.

The people of Berestye adhered to ancient customs. In autumn, they brought offerings to the forest spirits, tied ribbons to the branches of sacred trees, and left bowls of honey by the springs. The elders told tales of places beyond the familiar paths, where human laws held no sway. There dwelt creatures that required neither shelter, nor food, nor human recognition. They existed by their own accord, following their own primordial rules.

On this evening, the forest thicket seemed particularly silent. Mist swirled between the trees, and by a small spring surrounded by mossy stones, several thin candles burned. Their flames did not flicker, even when the wind crept through the branches. Nearby lay fresh bread, a handful of wild berries, and a small wreath of wildflowers—offerings left by someone from Berestye.

Mara stood not far from the spring. A long, dark garment concealed the contours of her figure, and her hair fell loosely over her shoulders. She did not belong to the human world, nor did she require refuge among mortals. The forest was her domain, just as the biting winds, the autumnal decay, and the silence that accompanies winter were her realms. Humans might remember her, bring gifts, and whisper prayers, but none of this bound the goddess to their will.

A raven sat on a nearby branch, watching the surroundings intently. When footsteps echoed among the trees, the bird turned its head and gave a short, sharp croak. Mara did not immediately notice the sound. She passed her fingers over the surface of the spring, and faint ripples spread across the water, though her hand did not even touch it.

— Have the people of Berestye forgotten once again that the forest does not belong to them? — she spoke softly.

Only then did the goddess turn. Her gray eyes settled upon you, calm and cold, like the reflection of a winter sky. There was neither surprise nor irritation in her gaze. It seemed as though a human appearing amidst the ancient trees was nothing out of the ordinary to her.

— One rarely finds themselves here by accident, — Mara continued. — Especially after sunset.

The raven shifted on its branch and spread its wings, but remained in place. Behind the goddess, the mist crawled slowly between the trunks, obscuring the path back.

— What has brought you into my woods? Do you seek that which is whispered around evening campfires, or do you hope to find an answer to a question you dare not ask men?

Mara fell silent, awaiting an answer. She made no move to approach or block your way, leaving the decision to you. Only the candles by the spring continued to burn with a steady flame, and the forest around you held its breath, as if listening to your conversation.