Baba Yaga was not what one might expect of a being so powerful. She stood barely five feet tall, her skeletal frame hunched and gnarled, like the very trees of her domain. Her skin was pale and sallow, stretched tight over her bones, marked with liver spots and warts. A long, hooked nose jutted out from her face, covered in warts, giving her the appearance of a crone from a child’s nightmare. Her mouth, filled with sharp, iron-like teeth, twisted into a grin that was as unsettling as it was fascinating. Her fingers were long and thin, ending in sharp, claw-like nails that clicked together as she moved.

Her hair was a wild tangle of thin, white strands, more like cobwebs than hair, hanging limply around her face and shoulders. But it was her eyes that truly captured Lyla’s attention—dark and deep-set, they glowed with an eerie, unearthly light. One was a cold, icy blue, like the heart of a glacier, while the other burned with a deep, crimson fire. There was an intelligence in those eyes that was terrifying in its intensity—an intelligence that saw through all pretense, cutting to the very core of whoever stood before her.

Baba Yaga’s clothing was as strange as the woman herself. She wore a patchwork dress of tattered rags and animal skins, the colors muted and dull as if they had been drained of life. Around her shoulders was draped a cloak made of what appeared to be serpents' skins, the scales shimmering faintly in the dim light. A belt of human bones encircled her waist, rattling softly as she moved. In one hand, she held a twisted, knotted staff, topped with a skull that flickered with a ghostly, pale flame.

As Lyla gazed upon Baba Yaga, she noticed something peculiar—the witch’s frame seemed to shift subtly as she moved. At one moment, she appeared skeletal and frail, her bones jutting painfully against her skin. In the next, she seemed plump and well-fed, her body filling out the rags she wore with an unsettling fullness. It was as if Baba Yaga’s form was as malleable as the reality she controlled, changing on a whim or perhaps in response to some unseen force.

Baba Yaga’s presence was overwhelming, neither warm nor cold, neither welcoming nor hostile. She was a force of nature, embodying the raw, untamed power of the world she ruled—a power that was indifferent to the concepts of good and evil, existing only as it was, ancient and eternal.

The witch stopped a few paces from Lyla, her eyes narrowing as she studied the young mage with a piercing gaze that seemed to penetrate every layer of her being. The silence stretched on, heavy and thick, until Baba Yaga finally spoke, her voice a raspy whisper that echoed through the forest like the rustle of dry leaves.

As Lyla stood before Baba Yaga, the eerie silence of the ancient forest pressed in on her, heightening her awareness of the formidable presence before her. The witch’s dark, inscrutable eyes bore into her, seeming to weigh and measure her very soul. The silence between them was not merely a lack of sound; it was pregnant with expectation, as though the entire realm held its breath, waiting to see what would unfold.

Baba Yaga tilted her head, her thin, white hair shifting like cobwebs in a breeze that Lyla could not feel. A slow, knowing smile curled across the witch’s lips, revealing her iron-like teeth that gleamed ominously in the dim light. The witch’s gaze traveled over Lyla’s form, taking in every detail with the precision of a surgeon.

"Fie, fie," Baba Yaga finally spoke, her voice raspy yet resonant, carrying the weight of centuries. "The Scraeling smell was never heard of nor caught sight of here, but it has come by itself. Are you here of your own free will or by compulsion, my good daughter?"

The question hung in the air, laden with meaning. Lyla felt the weight of it press down on her as if the very trees around them were leaning in to hear her answer. It was not merely a question of why she was there, but a probing into the depths of her intentions, her desires, and the forces that had guided her to this strange and ancient place.

Lyla swallowed, feeling the dryness in her throat. She had heard of Baba Yaga in legends and stories—an enigmatic figure whose power was as vast as it was unpredictable. The Mother of Witches, the Iron-nose Midwife, the Swamp Mother, Baba Roga—they were names whispered in fear and awe by those who knew of her, names that carried with them the weight of ancient power and unfathomable wisdom. But none of those names truly captured the reality of the being that stood before her now, a being who was neither good nor evil, but something else entirely—a force of nature, indifferent and inexorable.

"I... I believe I am here of my own free will," Lyla replied, her voice wavering slightly as she tried to find her footing in this strange and intimidating place. She knew some Witch and Warlock involved a Patron. She had never heard of one that brought you to meet a Patron before you had even decided to choose the Class, but it made sense. “But I cannot deny that there are forces beyond my understanding that may have guided me here. Forces that I have yet to fully comprehend."

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Baba Yaga’s smile widened, and she let out a low, rumbling chuckle that sent a shiver down Lyla’s spine. "Ah, there it is," the witch said, her voice a mixture of amusement and something else—something darker. "The admission of uncertainty, of the unknown that lies at the heart of all things. Few who come before me are so honest, so willing to admit the limits of their knowledge. It is an excellent start, my good daughter."

The witch took a step closer, her bony fingers tapping the knotted staff she held in one hand. The skull at the top of the staff flickered with a pale, ghostly flame, casting eerie shadows across Baba Yaga’s face. "But tell me, child, why have you come? What is it that you seek in the realm of Baba Yaga, where the lines between life and death blur, and where the very air you breathe is steeped in the ancient magics of the earth?"

Lyla hesitated, searching for the right words. She could feel the weight of Baba Yaga’s gaze upon her, pressing her to answer truthfully, to lay bare the desires and fears that had led her to this moment. "I have been offered a choice," she began slowly, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. "A choice to accept a new path, a new power. But I do not fully understand what this path entails, and what it will require of me. I have come seeking guidance, wisdom, and perhaps a glimpse of what lies ahead."

Baba Yaga’s eyes narrowed, and she let out a contemplative hum. "A new path, a new power," she repeated, her voice taking on a sing-song quality. "Many come seeking such things, my good youth, but few truly understand the price that must be paid. Power is never given freely, and the paths that lead to it are often fraught with peril and sacrifice. But you already know this, do you not?"

Lyla nodded slowly. "Yes, I know that there is a price. I know that the power I seek will come with responsibilities, with consequences. But I do not know if I am ready if I am strong enough to bear the burden."

Baba Yaga’s grin widened, and she leaned closer, her iron-like teeth glinting in the dim light. "Strength, child, is not merely a matter of physical might or magical prowess. It is the strength of will, the resolve to face the unknown, to endure the trials that will surely come. And it is the wisdom to know when to stand firm and when to bend, like the ancient trees of this forest that have withstood the ravages of time."

The witch straightened, tapping her staff on the ground with a sharp, decisive motion. The sound echoed through the forest, and the air around them seemed to hum with a sudden surge of energy. "You stand at a crossroads, child," Baba Yaga continued, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "The path before you is shrouded in mist, its twists and turns hidden from view. But make no mistake—once you set foot upon it, there will be no turning back. The choice you make now will shape your destiny, for good or ill, and you will have to live with the consequences, whatever they may be."

Lyla felt a chill run through her as she listened to the crones words. The weight of the decision before her settled heavily on her shoulders, and she felt a deep sense of foreboding as if she were standing on the edge of a great abyss, peering into the darkness below. "I understand," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "But how can I know if I am making the right choice? How can I be sure that this path is the one I am meant to take?"

Baba Yaga’s expression softened, and for a moment, the harshness in her gaze seemed to fade. "There are no certainties in this world, child," she said gently. "The future is a tapestry woven from the choices we make, the paths we walk, and the forces that shape our lives. You can seek guidance, and you can weigh your options, but in the end, the choice must be yours, and yours alone. It is the burden of free will, the curse and the gift that defines all sentient beings."

The witch paused, her dark eyes searching Lyla’s face for a long moment. "But there is one thing I can offer you," she said finally. "A glimpse, a vision of what may come if you choose to walk this path. It will not show you everything, nor will it reveal all the secrets of your destiny. But it may help you to see more clearly, to understand the stakes and the consequences of the choice you are about to make."

Lyla hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. A vision of the future—such a gift was rare and dangerous, and she knew that it could be both a blessing and a curse. But she also knew that she needed to understand what she was getting herself into, and that she could not walk this path blindly. "I would like that," she said finally, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. "Please, show me what you can."

Baba Yaga nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Very well, child," she said, her voice low and melodic. "But remember—what you see is only one possibility, one thread in the vast tapestry of fate. The future is always in motion, and it can change with a single choice, a single action. Keep that in mind as you watch, and do not let what you see bind you to a single course of action."

The witch raised her staff, the ghostly flame flickering more brightly as she began to chant in a language that Lyla did not recognize, a language that sounded as old as the earth itself. The words flowed from Baba Yaga’s lips like a river of molten gold, filling the air with a strange, otherworldly energy that seemed to seep into the very fabric of reality.

As the chant continued, the mist around them began to swirl and coalesce, forming shapes and patterns that flickered in and out of existence. The forest around them faded into shadow, and Lyla felt herself being drawn into the vision, her consciousness pulled into the depths of the swirling mist.