Cricket Creek Bog Searching

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he is fluid, moving from sentence to sentence and unuttered words, translating worlds through what he does and the way he looks at her. and ysen, though he is a boy, tastes success, pulls it nearer, weaves his intentions into his dance - he nods, at the query, and he settles in to listen.
blessed! blessed is she, to be filled with children, so the good lady thinks - and ysen would agree with her - oh, he would shout for joy to the heavens, but 'tis winter and winter children are the children who die the most, who suffer the most, who must fight and battle ev'ry day for survival against the harsh elements. pity! and he knows not of this molech, but if he truly is a benevolent god, then he would gift them with spring waifs, small babes grown up in the comfort of summer and autumn, and well to last the winter. he shakes his head no, but offers a smile at that.
tell me more, prophet

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