Two hooded figures, a coyote and her fox, waited. 


They had crossed the border.


Marked out with sticks along the perimeter, a clearing in the forest, a pond with a hut.


The pointed hat of a witch obscured the face of a lounging, female figure. Submerged up to her waist, her hairless pink skin out of place, her breasts on display.


Mistakeable for a person interrupted from their bath. Though her form was out of place here, her lack of fur, her wedged-shaped head now on display as she looks up.


Her row of eyes watching.


“Tribute?” the Witch of the Puddle asks.


The fox, a slave with a parcel in her hands, looks up to her owner the coyote. 


“Of course,” the coyote responds. 


“And what have you brought?” 


“Lounylynn,” the coyote coos to her slave.


The fox replies with a bow of her head, an order given by her owner. 


Lounylynn approaches the edge of the pond, kneeling down. Laying out the parcel, before returning to the safety of her owner. 


“Ah,” the puddle Witch states, “this is why you’re my favourite Elswyth--your slave is also cute.” 


“Thank you,” Elswyth responds.


“And what did you want? Ah, wait,” the Witch of the Puddle pauses. “ Is it your birthday? Did I forget it again?”


“No, it is not my birthday.”


“And which one is it this time?” she asks, her fish-like tail pushing her closer.


“It isn’t,” Elswyth affirms.


The pond being so small, it doesn’t take her long to reach the pair. Pulling herself up to sit on the edge, besides the parcel with only her tail remaining in the pool.


“You’re older than me,” the witch continues, “which is unusual for your kin.” 


“Are you done?” 


The witch of the puddle turns, the discoloured skin of her gills showing clearly on her side, beneath her breasts.


She’s aware of the gaze, as it moves up along her side.


“Your slave is cute, Elswyth.”


Lounylynn retreats from the witch’s sight, behind the safety of her owner.


“Can we come in?” 


The Witch of the Puddle disappears into the water, seemingly falling through the floor. 


Elswyth approaching the structure, her slave following. A slanting hovel, its rotting walls giving near to collapse. Her paw pushing aside its curtain door, Lounylynn entering. 


Laying in a bathtub was the Witch of the Puddle. 


A worktop sitting in front of her, parcel lay on top.


“You may come in,” she says to the pair.


“I’m surprised to see the roof’s still intact,” Elswyth comments, looking about the room.


The interior sharing the shack’s outwards appearance.


Uneven shelves line the walls, littered with jars of dirty glass and the occasional animal bone. 


Mould creeps up its timbers.


The witch of the puddle pulls at the parcel’s cordage, tied in a rabbit knot which comes loose with a tug. 


“And are you still living in a hole these days?”


Her hands unfolding the unfacened paper.


“I am.”


“Good,” she says.


Brown paper now covering her work surface, slabs of meat sitting neatly in the middle.


Lounylynn remains near the exit, attempting to hide as well as she can within herself while remaining stood out in the open.


“About why I’m here,” Elswyth says.


The witch of the puddle looking up, six eyes moving from the coyote to Lounalynn. Locking her eyes with the slaves’


“Will you be joining me for dinner?” she asks.


“No,” Elswyth says.


“Why not?” she asks, returning her gaze to the meat. “You always bring me such good food.”


“You know why.”


“It’s a shame.”


“About why I’m here,” Elswyth repeats.


“I already know why you’re here.”


The witch places her hands on the table, cupping them over the work surface. She lifts her hands up, revealing a collection of glowing rocks, pale blue with a glassy surface, now piled there together.


“This is less than usual,” the coyote comments.


“This meat is old.” 


“That meat is fresh,” she retorts.


“I want to trade for something,” the Witch of Puddle states.


Turning around, her gills exposed. Her eyes watching, spotting the fox once more staring at the witch’s exposed breasts.


She takes a bucket down from a shelf and brings it down to the table, next to the meat, next to the little pile of glowing stones. The witch tips the bucket, emptying it, more stones spilling out, off the side of the table and clattering on the floor.


“For the slave,” she offers, “I think she’s cute.”


“She is cute,” Elswyth agrees. “Though she’ll remain mine.”


“Thats a shame,” the Witch of the Puddle replies. “I thought my offer was appealing.”