In the time before time. In a time before the Rus. Even before the Ruotsi, the ancestors of Rus, there lived men upon the earth. These were the great men of ancient times, from whom the legends of old have come, and from whom the Ruotsi, and Rus descend. The great men of the time of morning mist, of which nothing now remain. They were tall, perfect, and lived long lives. But even the great men would age and die. And as their age reached further and further into the morning light of the first day, they passed as the trickling drops from an empty bottle.
This tale is from those days, but older and younger.
In the time before time, there lived a woman, of the great ones. She was not known for her kindness. Nor her beauty. For she cared little for such. Her name spread by her deeds of magic. For she saw the spirits of the earth as they wandered between men, and spoke to them, and commanded them. And she became knowledgeable of many things.
She lived the life of the great ancients. For centuries she wandered the earth, seeing all which it had to offer, the deepest pits, the highest peaks. Until at last she found a man that she wished not to wander from. And with this man she bore sons and daughters. Children of the great ones, among them, Ruotsi, who would give his name to an entire tribe and commit deeds of legend. But his is not this tale.
Having mothered many offspring, she again began to long to wander, and did so. Into the world of spirits she travelled. Down to the nether realms. For time immemorable before time was counted, she wandered. She returned, generations later to find her children perished, their descendants scattered across the world.
Old age and death, took its toll upon all, even the great legends. But though she aged, She did not die. So old she was, that salt grew on her back, like in the deepest mines of the earth. She built herself a magic house on chicken legs, without doors or windows, a house surrounded by a palisade with a human skull on each pole. And from it she flies in the night, on a great morter, steering with the pestle, and wiping her tracks with a silver birch, so that none will know her presence.
Seeking, she sought out descendents of the tribe of Ruotsi. One of these she found, a noble, savage people, calling themselves Rus. And she watched over them. Sometimes she would help or guide one among them. Other times she would steal their children, never to return them. The Rus knew she was there, they loved her and feared her, for though she was their mother, she would show little compassion, as her heart had been jaded by her eternal life. Always she was there. Watching.
And to this day, she watches over the Rus. The marrow of our nation. As long as She lives, we live. As long as we live, She lives. Our ancestral mother, as old as the lands we live in. We call her grandmother;
Baba Yaga.

(to be continued)
This tale is from those days, but older and younger.
In the time before time, there lived a woman, of the great ones. She was not known for her kindness. Nor her beauty. For she cared little for such. Her name spread by her deeds of magic. For she saw the spirits of the earth as they wandered between men, and spoke to them, and commanded them. And she became knowledgeable of many things.
She lived the life of the great ancients. For centuries she wandered the earth, seeing all which it had to offer, the deepest pits, the highest peaks. Until at last she found a man that she wished not to wander from. And with this man she bore sons and daughters. Children of the great ones, among them, Ruotsi, who would give his name to an entire tribe and commit deeds of legend. But his is not this tale.
Having mothered many offspring, she again began to long to wander, and did so. Into the world of spirits she travelled. Down to the nether realms. For time immemorable before time was counted, she wandered. She returned, generations later to find her children perished, their descendants scattered across the world.
Old age and death, took its toll upon all, even the great legends. But though she aged, She did not die. So old she was, that salt grew on her back, like in the deepest mines of the earth. She built herself a magic house on chicken legs, without doors or windows, a house surrounded by a palisade with a human skull on each pole. And from it she flies in the night, on a great morter, steering with the pestle, and wiping her tracks with a silver birch, so that none will know her presence.
Seeking, she sought out descendents of the tribe of Ruotsi. One of these she found, a noble, savage people, calling themselves Rus. And she watched over them. Sometimes she would help or guide one among them. Other times she would steal their children, never to return them. The Rus knew she was there, they loved her and feared her, for though she was their mother, she would show little compassion, as her heart had been jaded by her eternal life. Always she was there. Watching.
And to this day, she watches over the Rus. The marrow of our nation. As long as She lives, we live. As long as we live, She lives. Our ancestral mother, as old as the lands we live in. We call her grandmother;
Baba Yaga.

(to be continued)
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