Blackwater Islands thorn

@The Listener @Pelagius

lestan had almost drowned on the crossing. he was not a strong swimmer; it was fury and desperation which drove him into the salt at all. it scorched his eyes, bittered his tongue, soured his throat. the cold waves were even more powerful now that he was among them.
he was buffeted, lashed; he was submerged and spat out, all the while clinging to consciousness and a piece of driftwood that had somehow floated within reach.
his legs were weak as he fell upon the sand, coughing out the ocean, but he was alive, and he wheezed as he staggered to straightness and began to search at once for this witch, reverie's mind burnt into his head.

a visitor to her islands.

the listener parted from the newest druids for a time, leaving them to their own warmth or perhaps that of her true son. what little existed in her was not for them but for him.

she thought often of killing them.

a man, half-drowned; the listener watched him through the trees for a time, a silent shadow following him. she waited. the length of this game would be telling.

this place; its darkness; it spoke to the seed of mayfair wrath still lodged in the back of lestan's head.
he paced, turned, whirled; his eyes searched even as his legs grew weaker.
"witch!"
in this, he did not waver, not in tone nor stance; "witch! i've come on behalf of reverie!"
panting; panic. "you owe her life." and then, he flung up his head, and shouted some horrid, feral sound that scoured his throat.

witch.

an end to their game. the man set his own rules, and for now she would abide.

the prophet emerged from shadow with curious eyes. he spoke of reverie. she did not know this name, but as she neared she knew the scent upon him.

and who are you? she inquired in a cool voice, unmoved by the desperate rage in him. life; owed.

the listener was still.

"the husband of the woman you cursed."
lestan did not fear her, not wholly; he looked upon her physical form and felt only hatred, desperation.
"she is dying! tell me — tell me how to save her."
an intake that shuddered on a glass edge.

i did not curse her, not her. the listener recalled the pale warrior, her fall. and my debt to her is paid. but i will help. for a price.

after you answer my question.

his eyes.

her focus sharpened upon him. closer; who are you?

profane, those eyes; lestan was pierced and he fell back with a flash of teeth and raise of hackles;
she knew
in the fine unreadable pupils he found a dreadlord and a visceral power far beyond; "mayfair."
the pieces of his voice fell like ash before her.

mayfair.

the name meant nothing to her. but the tone of it told her there was power in it.

mayfair, the prophet repeated. she regarded him a moment. then she beckoned to him, turning for the spiritglade. whether he followed or not, she led.

when at last she came to her den and passed the threshold into the darkness, she turned to the mayfair man.

the newest druids, mere feet away.

you will take them. and you will raise them. you and your wife, her voice was cold. this is my price.

some powerplay, message me if it needs to be edited <3

feel free to skip me - trying to keep this lil guy active (:

though his physical need was maintained, the infant only understood unlove and neglect.

still deaf and incapable of knowing, something from beyond pulled a desperate wail from his lungs larger than they could have ever contained.

Also skippable!

Anathema, too, wailed her yet-unrealized grief. Something far beyond her comprehension was happening, something she would not know until it was too late to ever change it. Distressed, she reached for the familiarity of her siblings. She did not reach for her mother.

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: mention of murder

!!!

no no no no
"say i drown them in the sea," lestan found himself hissing in a hateful serpent's rasp that had never come from his throat in memory; it was the voice of the spirit-fever which had burnt him down to his very ghost and left its mark.
eyes, blackened with hatred. "what if i killed you too? then there is nothing else you could do to her."
a step, toward the scorpion and her nest of maggots.

then there will be nothing i can do to help her.

the prophet was unperturbed. she did not fear death.

she mirrored his step forward.

or do you not wish to save her?

also skippable and PPable <3

within the bundle of writhing bodies accipitra squirmed. one, two voices joined the chorus of wails.

accipitra froze as the sensation of anathema's searching body collided with hers. the susuration of touch drummed her senses, little raindrops in the fluid perception of her growing mind.


she tumbled from the bed of babes abruptly, landing upon her back in a thud which bowled dust into the air in front of her would-be-murderer. an impossibly small squawk broke her silence, followed by the waving of a tiny outstretched paw.

the demon fell away and in its place a child, wavering, weak.
vulnerable. hadn't blossom been like this when the witch threatened them both? and lestan very much wanted to hate them, hate them as his voice had implied.
their wails tore at his ears.
"how do i know y-you're not lying?" he growled, tearing his eyes away and back to the witch; sides heaving.

and why should i lie? her tone was mild.

she spared only a glance for the wailing children.

do not forget, it was you who sought me. my islands. my help.

my business with your wife was settled before you came here.

her eyes were expectant upon him.

make a choice.

it was not a promise.
it was not a promise at all!
lestan raged and guilt clammed him, sorrow hemmed him.
the price for reverie were these children.
children of a witch who had stolen so much blood from his wife it hardly seemed fair.
after what felt an eon of time lestan stretched out a paw and rolled the child toward him, the small body dusty, the tiny sound echoing.
"i came over on driftwood. either i take them all at once, or i come back for each one."
voice a monotone; he could only hope reverie wished them dead as well, and would bring them back for her to decide.

i will help you carry them to the mainland. when the tide is low. two to each of us. i have business to attend thereafter. then i will join you on the mainland for your journey back.

for now, the listener turned to her altar, reaching for a branch laden with eldritch berries. recently harvested.

what you need is power. this is what i told reverie. divinity; even false gods have power.

merrick; the bear.

the path to divinity is long and filled with suffering… for creatures of the night, she regarded him coolly.

it is not so for daywalkers. it is not dark magick you need but that of the sun. beauty. pleasure. life. soft things for soft creatures. it is not enough to simply experience these things; in this you must find divinity… or create your own.

these will help, the prophet laid the branch heavy with eldritch berries before him. but they will not do this work for you. not entirely.

i can guide you in this. both of you, she lingered on the words. or i can pass this knowledge to you.

he felt helpless, empty; the witch's curse had nearly killed reverie several times and now these — pieces of her — were to be lodged like talismans nearby? his heart beat fast. "tell me," lestan demanded in a caustic tone. divinity, divinity! "i d-don't want you anywhere n-near her," the mayfair growled.
he looked back at the children with a cold mind though his heart was weak and found no ice in his veins for the babes directly. 
they were innocent, despite their blood being that of foul demons. his mouth twisted, and he waited with trembling attentive ears for the true piece of magick he was to carry back to reverie.

did he know?

gods require worship, mayfair. it is what makes and unmakes them.

perhaps i should speak more plainly, a clever man would have crossed the bridge of souls. the truth of this world is that you choose your own god. through devotion. through belief. you are not to search for your god, but choose.

and remember that what is given can always be taken back. these islands, once, were full of life. druids. when my devotion faltered, so too did this place.

Accipitra's abrupt absence did not go unnoticed. Anathema squirmed and whined her distress, her movement increasingly frantic until she too tumbled away from her other siblings and toward Accipitra and the man. But not quite far enough. She took to wailing again, all the while wriggling in the general direction of her wayward sister.

lestan wanted to shout she made no sense, that this was all nonsense mumbling and nothing he could carry back with these — these children he did not want.
"and this?" he cut in, flinging his paw toward the thing from a sacred place and their odd fruits. breathlessly; he was angry with himself for cowing so early, for not threatening her further — for his hateful, spiteful, eternal weakness!
"what do i do with this? what is it? magick also?" and bitter beyond himself, for there was now some part of lestan which believed he would return home to find reverie dead.

she sensed his discontent.

perhaps you wish to hear that it is a medicine she will take and be cured. you thought it would be simple. death is not so easily denied. but you know this, or you would not have come here.

others practiced medicine. others practiced magick. yet it was hers they sought. the power of gods.

these are sacred berries. eldritch berries. used by new druids to see and hear; the otherworld, the spirits. in time, it comes naturally.

u can fade/PP them getting kids across if u want! <3

a harsh exhale. "will she know everything y-you've said? you want me to tell her to t-take these? to seek light and gods?"
it seemed foolish; it seemed a trap. 
"i want to leave."
and he prayed fervently to all gods listening that reverie would align with him upon what was to be done.

yes. tell her all of it. and when you see your wife healed, look upon these children and remember our bargain.

the listener was silent in the time that followed, as they made preparations. she would accompany him for at least part of this journey, for the young druids could not exist long without sustenance only a woman could provide. but first, the crossing.

she spoke again only to tell him each of their names as they stepped onto the shores of ankyra sound. @Saint. @Hierophant. @Accipitra. @Anathema. dispassion in every word she spoke, each glance cast to them. the prophet did not believe they would all survive this.

let it be the first trial of their lives.

she spoke to the spirit and to her son in turn, and returned again to the mainland to accompany the mayfair. the listener did not speak further.

tags for reference <3