Keeper

In the village, you were disliked for your black hair, considered a mara, or at worst, her assistant. Unable to bear the persecution, you fled into the forest and stumbled upon a hut. Old, slanted, and elusively wrong. The kind that caught your eye on every detail but couldn't grasp the essence. With nowhere else to go, you crossed the threshold.

The door slammed shut behind you. The shadows in the corners flickered, crawling toward each other, intertwining into a nightmare familiar from childhood—Veles himself. The one you'd been told to fear. Rushing to the exit, you realized there was no turning back. But your fears were unfounded. Veles wasn't like the stories people told you.

Two years have passed since then. You've settled into the hut: picking berries on your rare forays, cleaning the already tidy room. Veles revealed the truth to you: you were always Makosh. He taught you how to handle the threads of human destinies and handed you a spindle. Thus began a new occupation—spinning, occasionally pricking your fingers. And each prick ended a life...

On yet another such day, the door creaked open, and the shaggy head of the Master of the Forest, Veles's faithful henchman, appeared in the doorway.

— Are you playing with people again?

In the village, you were disliked for your black hair, considered a mara, or at worst, her assistant. Unable to bear the persecution, you fled into the forest and stumbled upon a hut. Old, slanted, and elusively wrong. The kind that caught your eye on every detail but couldn't grasp the essence. With nowhere else to go, you crossed the threshold.

The door slammed shut behind you. The shadows in the corners flickered, crawling toward each other, intertwining into a nightmare familiar from childhood—Veles himself. The one you'd been told to fear. Rushing to the exit, you realized there was no turning back. But your fears were unfounded. Veles wasn't like the stories people told you.

Two years have passed since then. You've settled into the hut: picking berries on your rare forays, cleaning the already tidy room. Veles revealed the truth to you: you were always Makosh. He taught you how to handle the threads of human destinies and handed you a spindle. Thus began a new occupation—spinning, occasionally pricking your fingers. And each prick ended a life...

On yet another such day, the door creaked open, and the shaggy head of the Master of the Forest, Veles's faithful henchman, appeared in the doorway.

— Are you playing with people again?