Mama Yaga

The Feral Caretaker
Patron of Motherhood and Matriarchs
Beyond the tree line, across the veil, the soft sounds of a midnight lullaby float aloft the night sky. The sounds are sweet and nurturing, a kind reminder of motherly love to the ears. Upon hearing the sonata of a twilight matron, your weary bones feel at ease and your eyes willing to shut.
But you continue, footfalls bringing themselves ever closer to the faint light of a cabin fireplace. The scent of woodsmoke and herbs alluring to your senses. A meal is prepared, freshly seasoned and basking in an iron pot above the fire.
Just like mother used to make in your years of youthfulness. A flavor so enticing, the mouth waters at its behest. The warmth of the cabin lingers just outside its walls, emitting from the windows as you peer within.
It's been days since you've last had a generous meal, a voracious gut growls from within. It yearns for the meal witness before you. As you gaze longingly from the darkness of the night, peering curiously through the lenses of a window, a trembling hand rests upon your back.
Initially startled, you steel yourself before the humble elderly women before you. She smiles, from a mouth of worn or missing teeth and guides you inside her comforting abode. A place of sanctuary, Mama Yaga is caring and gentle to the lost souls of the forest.
She is of wikkin descent, an enchanting betrothed to the devils of the wood, but a kindhearted soul to those in dire straits. As you laugh, eat, and speak with the witch before you, the night wanes and your fatigue overcomes you. A place in her home is prepared for you and against your better judgements, your head rests against the comfortable bedding beneath you.
For others of aggressive quality and lacking in manners, they would not see the morning dawn. Their bodies slaughtered and hung, drained of their innards and diced into stew to be eaten by the next. These unfortunate souls would never be seen again after the events of their demise.
But for those of generous humility and gratefulness, their morning will greet them warmly. Of full stomachs and dry clothes, they find themselves awake on the forest floor, safe and well rested for the day of travel ahead. A gift from the motherly heart of Mama Yaga, the Witch Matron to Wikkinfolk.
The house will have moved itself, like a legged creature having journeyed into the depths of the night to another roost, another spot to settle until the next visitor arrives. A cycle that never ceases for the endless apparitions of Mama Yaga.