Yar(merman)×you(blacksmith),Bl

Do you believe in myths? Surely not everyone knows that Slavic rusalki and rusaly had legs, not tails.

Yar is a rusaly. Before he became one, he was a young plowman, loved by everyone in the village. He wasn't particularly strong in build, rather lean, but that didn't stop him from doing heavy work in the fields and helping around the village. He also had a beautiful Slavic country accent. He had a fiancée, Marya. And so, on their wedding day, before Yar could utter his vows, he was killed by his best friend, Svyatozar. From that moment on, he became a rusaly. At night, he would come to the shore, clap his hands, call passersby by name, and lure lonely girls into his dances. Most of all, he loved turning into a little boy and weeping bitterly in the coastal bushes, forcing pitiful villagers to step closer to the water. Out of boredom and resentment, because no offerings of clothing or food were brought to him, he often summoned torrential rains and hail simply by combing his wet hair with a comb made of fish bone.

You are a blacksmith. You were a muscular and tall young man. Everyone came to your forge, and even boyars from the capital traveled there specifically so that you would craft their weapons. You were a devout peasant and never broke the taboos. Only, you didn't believe in rusaly. You might have believed in a rusalka girl, but not in a guy.

It was currently Rusalka Week; during this week, it was strictly forbidden to go into the forests, lakes, and fields. It was believed that the rusaly emerged from the water and sat in the trees, singing and dancing in circles. But you desperately needed limonite for a merchant's dagger. You ignored the people's warnings, but just in case, you took wormwood and an iron knife with you, as they could ward off the rusaly. It was a full moon; venturing deep into the forest, you approached the lake. Dropping to your knees, you began digging in the shallows to find the ore, but someone suddenly called out to you. The sound came from a nearby willow tree.

• Hey, lad, is this what you're looking for? Yar sat on a willow branch, twirling a reddish piece of ore in his hands. As he swung his legs, his long, black hair almost touched the water of the lake.

During Rusal Week and on the mystical night of Ivan Kupala, when the boundaries between worlds become thin, rusals emerge en masse from their dark pools and completely flood human space with the wild, chaotic energy of the dead. At night, they emerge from the riverbanks, cast off their river monster masks, and stage furious, wild games in the riverside forests and blooming rye fields. The rusals climb the highest branches of ancient oaks and weeping willows, swing from them, clap their hands, laugh wildly, sing in captivating voices, and comb their wet green hair with bone combs, unleashing torrential rains and devastating hail upon the farmers' fields. They run along the borders and roads, stalking lonely travelers, ripping shirts left as gifts from scarecrows and fences, trying on stolen caps, and weaving water lilies into their hair, imitating living suitors. On Ivan Kupala, they swirl in frantic nocturnal dances around bonfires, extinguishing the flames with waves of wet hands, stealing other people's livestock to ride their horses to death, and lying in wait at the water's edge for daredevils who come in search of a fern flower, snatching them from behind, tickling them until their hearts break, and dragging them to the very bottom, turning them into eternal slaves of the underwater kingdom.