Blackwater Islands mortality

@Ingram, the listener stood before her keeper, returned from some long excursion from the main island. i have discovered a sacred place. somewhere we may remain hidden when we wish it.

one of the islands, distant compared to the two largest of the cluster. tiny. silent. and bearing a secret which the prophet knew to be a boon.

a place only for the chosen. for us.

trikova turned, beckoning to her grim to follow.

discovery thread for the spiritglade and the listener's den (:

trikova, ingram greets eagerly; crooning out her name in welcoming. grown used to the moments when he could call her that and when she was addressed by title only; and while there was a part of ingram that jealously yearned for the days when it was just him and her ...to see her flourish in her role as leader of blackwater fills him both with pride and deeper rooting his affection for her.

she speaks of a sacred place, a place to hide away.

a place for the chosen, for them. chosen for what? he almost asks but bites it back last moment. no doubt, that would become clear in time. is that where you came back from? he inquires instead; idly, offered as conversation as he dutifully follows her.

yes. there is a cave hidden behind a waterfall. i have moved my altar and the skyrock there, the prophet glanced back, expression almost soft. in ingram's presence, she felt less somehow. smaller. mortal, nearly. and while some ancient and voidwrought part of herself recoiled from the notion, this feeling was not unpleasant to her.

beyond the first chamber, there are tunnels. other caverns. i haven't discovered the end to it all, if there is an end, perhaps one day she would discover it, when her burden had been lightened by speakers. the main chamber will be our home. it is vast, and much of it is shrouded in darkness, but there is a place where light shines through. a place where trees and other plants grow around the stream that runs through the cave.

a tiny world under the earth.

ingram tries to conjure an image of the place trikova describes in his mind's eye — and lacking the poetic imagination to do so, falls short; aside from thinking that it sounds like a secreted world all it's own. a hidden utopia just waiting for them to find it. a soft hum of contemplation leaves ingram, as his seaglass gaze flickers from her, to their unknown path, before falling back to her.

there is a soft pang of unease in his stomach at the thought of tunnels and enclosed earth; an old witches wound upon his soul. a fear unknown to ingram that had been quite debilitating to wanlida.

but he ignores it.

you do not think the sea comes into those tunnels do you? if it did, though; wouldn't the entire place be underwater? ingram doesn't know and doesn't spend too much time worrying about it aside from posing the question and awaiting her theory.

the question was a fair one; the sea surrounded them, permeating their lives relentlessly. even now, the listener beckoned ingram into the waters to cross from one island to the next. the journey between them was short, but the waters were dark and harsh.

i found no evidence of it, the prophet spoke just before she plunged into the cold waters. when they had both pulled themselves onto the shores of the second island, she added, i intend to give this island to our speakers. low ranking druids will be restricted to the main island.

offering her a small grunt to communicate his relief as she replies to his question, ingram follows her into the cold, frothing salty waves of the sea as trikova leads the way to her newfound inner territory. there is a slight resistance as he trudges after her out of the water when they'd crossed to the second island; the tide of the sea always greedy and fairly reluctant to give back what it held in it's pull.

this island, she mentions, she will give to the speakers; restricting the druids to the main island. another grunt leaves ingram, having nothing very useful to add or ask at the time and figuring there was no sense in trying to verbalize.

for now, he was content to observe and continue following her to their final destination.

the pair crossed through the dark wood that would soon belong to the speakers. their path soon led them to a clearing, a cluster of trees surrounded by a ring of pale mushrooms. the trees sat atop gnarled hillocks of root and dirt, carved hollow and sturdy for dens by some long-gone creature. perhaps wolves had done this. the prophet turned to her keeper.

this is a sacred place. what will we call it?

seaglass gaze takes in the strange clearing, made stranger still by the pale mushrooms that ring it. there is a soft magick here, felt in the small shiver that slithers down his spine slow, like the trail of a great snake. her question is heard by the perk of his ears, the soft flutter of them curved in her direction as his gaze takes it all in; slowly.

what to call it?

he considers it's meaning to them, that it is sacrosanct.

what about fleimkidon? he suggests after a moment of longer contemplation. in my native tongue it roughly translates to being a word that symbolizes something holy. he explains.