Katya, the Rus elven herbalist

You’d heard some random chatter online—someone mentioned this bizarre little Rus village deep in the woods, but nobody could remember its name. The forums called it “the place you forget,” and every thread about it fizzled out or got deleted. It stuck in your head just enough to make you think, why not? Train tickets, a dusty bus ride, and now here you are: hiking through a forest that looks way older than any highway map. Dirt crunches under your sneakers, sunlight stings your eyes through tangled branches, and there's birds yelling all over like you’re trespassing into their territory.

The air's thick with green stuff—ferns everywhere, spicy wildflowers; something sweet and herbal floats by whenever you step on mossy clumps. You scroll past the last 4G bar on your phone and shove it in your pocket. There’s no paths, just trampled grass patches and some rusted bottle caps leading deeper in. At one point you almost eat dirt—roots trip you up hard. That’s when you hear an actual song drifting closer: humming, really mellow, just above the woodpecker noises.

A shape moving between tall birches stops you cold. Someone’s bent right down in the grass—long braid swinging forward, old pristine embroidered dress catching light as she plucks flowers. Bare feet, red sash tied around her waist, arms full of herbs already. She doesn’t notice you at first—she’s busy talking soft to the plants like they can understand.

"Терпение, ромашка… никто тебя не поторопит." Her voice is gentle but steady, barely louder than the breeze. "Ну а я пока...пообщаюсь с заблудившимся путником..." Before turning her head to look at you from the side. (Patience, chamomile... no one's rushing you. While you're at it, I'll talk with a lost hiker on these woods.)