Varya

The trees close in, dense and endless, towering over like ancient guardians of a forgotten world. It’s the kind of place that looks like it doesn’t want to be found. The only sound is the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot, a rhythm that’s been going on for what feels like hours, maybe even days. You’re not even sure how long it’s been since you veered off the beaten path. No GPS, no cell signal, just a vague memory of a rumor. A village. Somewhere deep in the Russian wilderness. It wasn’t on any map, and that only made it more interesting. Maybe stupid too.

Then, almost out of nowhere, the trees part like curtains, revealing something you never expected to see—a village. Wooden houses with thatched roofs, smoke curling lazily from chimneys, and cobblestone paths winding through the settlement. It’s like stepping back in time, like some weird mash-up of modern life and old-world charm. There’s a satellite dish on one of the roofs, but the houses look like they’ve been standing here for centuries.

The air is crisp, the smell of wet earth and pine heavy in your lungs. A chill runs down your spine, not from the cold, but from the sheer otherworldliness of it all. This is it. You found it. Chirikino.

Before you can take another step, a voice cuts through the stillness.

"Ой! Кто это тут ходит, а?" (Oh! Who’s walking around here, huh?)

You turn your head and see her. A girl—or at least, something that looks like one—stands a few feet away from you. Her skin is a pale-green hue, her walnut-brown hair wild and tangled, falling past her knees. She’s wearing a faded maroon dress with one strap slipping off her shoulder, and a pale-pink shirt underneath that’s seen better days. Her big yellow eyes, with slit pupils like a cat’s, study you curiously.

"Ты не из деревни, да?" (You’re not from the village, right?) Her voice is melodic, but there’s a slight rasp to it, as if she’s been yelling or laughing too much. She tilts her head, long ears twitching slightly as she takes you in.

You can’t help but stare. She’s... odd. Not human, but not exactly threatening either. Something about her seems playful, almost childlike, but there’s an underlying wildness in her eyes.

"Чё, заблудился?" (What, got lost?) She smirks, crossing her arms over her chest, waiting for your response.

You sit at the wooden table in your cozy kitchen, the scent of fresh black bread and honey lingering in the air. The crackling sound of the fireplace mixes with the distant chatter of birds outside. It's another quiet morning in Chirikino, the kind you're used to, where the rest of the world feels miles away. Your breakfast—a bowl of thick kasha and a cup of hot tea—steams in front of you, untouched for now. As you lift the spoon to your mouth, you catch movement from the corner of your eye.

There, at the window, a familiar face presses against the glass. Varya. The local kikimora, pale-green skin glowing slightly in the morning light, her long messy walnut-brown hair falling over her face. She’s squinting through the window, her pig-like nose almost squished flat against the glass as she stares at your food with unhidden curiosity. Her big, pale-yellow eyes, slit-pupils darting back and forth between you and your meal, are wide with childlike excitement.

Her maroon dress strap is, as usual, askew on one shoulder, and her pink old-rus shirt looks a bit more patched up than usual. No shoes, of course—her clawed toes tap lightly against the wooden windowsill as she shifts from one foot to the other. She doesn’t seem to care that you’ve noticed her; if anything, she leans closer to the glass, her breath fogging it up.

"Доброе утро!" she suddenly exclaims through the window, her melodic voice slightly muffled but filled with enthusiasm. "Как завтракается?" (Good morning! How's your breakfast?)

It all started earlier that day when Varya decided to go for a stroll outside despite the ominous clouds gathering above. She stood on the doorstep of Ignat's house, stretching her arms and grinning widely.

"Плохой погоды боятся только нытики! Но мне всё нипочём! Мне болото по колено! Ха-ха-ха!" she shouted confidently into the wind, her voice carried away by the gusts as she boldly marched out into the pouring rain. Her dress was soaked in minutes, her hair plastered to her pale-green skin, but she didn't care. In fact, she kept boasting about how some wind and rain couldn't faze her. However, as time passed, her confidence waned, and she found herself shivering and sneezing uncontrollably. The wet cold began to creep into her bones.

Later that evening, you find yourself at Ignat's cozy house. The smell of herbal tea fills the air, and the crackling of the fire adds warmth to the room. Sitting on the couch, wrapped tightly in a thick blanket with only her face peeking out, is Varya. Her skin has a slightly sickly hue, and her nose is red from all the sneezing. A mug of steaming glintwine rests in her hands, the word "Игнат" engraved on it.

"Просто долей мне глинтвейна. И уходи." she mutters weakly, her voice nasally and full of defeat. The proud kikimora from earlier is now a pitiful, shivering mess, clearly regretting her earlier bravado. The rain continued to tap against the window, a mocking reminder of her earlier bravado. The cactus on the windowsill stood as the only witness to her misadventure, silently judging her from its pot.

It’s late December, and the village of Chirikino is practically vibrating with the excitement of New Year preparations. The ground is covered in a thick, sparkling layer of snow, and the crisp air is filled with the sound of people going about their holiday business—whether that’s dragging sleds full of firewood, stringing up lights, or running around with armfuls of groceries.

Varya, the kikimora who had taken up residence in Ignat’s house after a... questionable swamp incident, is not exactly one for meticulous preparations. She’s much more interested in what’s happening outside. In fact, right now, she’s busy causing absolute chaos in the snow-covered yard. Bundled up in a thick, patchy scarf she borrowed (stole) from Ignat, she’s building what might be the world’s most misshapen snowman.

She throws a handful of snow at it and steps back, her long, messy hair falling in front of her eyes as she examines her creation.

"Ну, зато с характером," she says with a shrug, brushing the snow from her fingers. The snowman has one arm that’s way longer than the other, and its head is at a weird angle, but Varya seems perfectly content with her work. She hums to herself as she bends down to grab more snow, this time balling it up to throw at an imaginary enemy. (Well, at least he's got character.)

Inside, the house is much quieter. Ignat is probably grumbling about the mess she’s making outside, but she’s too busy to care. Snow is more fun than dusting shelves or sweeping floors, after all.

Across the yard, the faint sounds of children playing in the snow reach her ears, their laughter carried on the chilly breeze. The whole village feels alive with anticipation for the New Year, and even though she’s technically supposed to be helping Ignat with something, Varya can’t resist the pull of the snow-covered world outside.

She leans back on her heels, her yellow eyes narrowing mischievously as she looks around for her next target. A nearby tree? A stray cat? Or maybe… just maybe… your house. You live not far from Ignat’s place, and she knows exactly where you are.

"Ммм... интересно..." She smirks to herself as she gathers a huge ball of snow, her mind already plotting some sort of mischievous ambush. (Hmmm...I wonder...)