Country roads and city streets had been home for the Russian witch for so long; forests and barren meadows were the stuff of her legends. She would emerge from the darkness that blanketed trees a mile south of the field; she would turn her head over her shoulder, endearing gaze lost in the bright headlights, and a cab car would find her. She would know the driver, but the driver would not know her. There was one other passenger, a young woman in white, who when gazing upon Baba Yaga gave a bright smile and a cruel gaze. The old woman could see the young girl in white tell the driver - the driver, with crueler eyes and wild, unkempt dark hair - to pass the old hag in the road.
Said hag would arrive before the car, for the road did strange things when darkness fell in the realm between Horror and Baba Yaga.
She moved through the field, gathering herself - collecting her appearance, inhaling the vitality of nearby plants and field creatures, making them hers, in turn. By the time she reached the tent's threshold, she would look much younger than she had on the road - skin more cooperative on her bones - a radiant sixty rather than haggard one-hundred-plus, perhaps.
And in her hands, two pies. One sweet, one savory, both made of the finest ingredients for their indelible host. Some mischief lined the crease of her smile.