Blackfeather Woods i've got a little black book with my poems in

backdated to 31st of May

Nirgali and Ninazu. Her sons, born of pestilence.

She had sat at the edge of Spiderlings' Glen for two days now, staring at the piles of feces. The worms were beginning to slow, to still, but they still teemed with plague. She didn't get too close—they reeked—but she did not let anyone else near, either. Any effort to remove the sickness from the Glen would be firmly and vehemently quelled by her.

No one would take her babies from her. Not even as she lay in an opiate haze, having consumed enough poppies to bring her solace, yet not enough to steal away her breath, as they had on the island once. Maegi drifted over to one drying heap now, eyes fixed lovingly on the filth.

Nirgali, she cooed, a sound almost like a purr in her throat. She tilted her head to stare at the other. Ninazu. They were the names Peryite had given them—had given her to give to them. She did not think they would receive daedric names. They were far more special than the daedra.

They were hers. Mou's, too, but mainly hers, for they had come from her body, born of her flesh. She had feasted, bloated, ached, cried. . .all for them. And they were perfect.

Two twin piles of feces, tangled up in worms. Her precious babies.