agiron79

The witch Baba Yaga once baked herself bread out of spiders and liars and red razorwire that was garnished with flowers from the vaults of the dead, and sweetened with lye from a child’s funeral pyre. It was light as the crisp, cracking bones on the fields and as sharp to the taste as the ash-scattered shards that were all that remains of the swords and the shields of the warrior king and his bold bodyguards. In a chicken leg hovel at the edge of a wood the witch Baba Yaga licks the dregs from the spoons that she used to stir soup, spiced and thickened with blood that the dying ones spilt from their widowing wounds. But her