Wheeling Gull Isle xxi. beautiful black child

In times past, the darkest of night was when she practiced. 

It was reclusive, primordial to bathe in the moonlight as she called to her gods, to work magick beneath the stars. 

Yet, night had become special, a time for her to await instead of dread for she had something, or rather someone, to wait for. Night was for retiring eagerly to her mate's arms, tucking herself close in his embrace and remaining there - happily. 

Thus, it was with twilight's coming that the witch took to the forests, limbs lengthening to devour the earth in her odd sighthound gait, to the rocky shores of Wheeling Gull's east. 

The Chapel was not her direct location, instead she angled for the hidden cove she knew to be a ways south of the religious location. Uncertain of her recruits religions, and fearing ostracizism for her own, Rhælla preferred to begin assembling her altar here. 

It was rudimentary, a collection of odds and trinkets of nature - bones, feathers, rocks and crystals, fossils and petrified wood, eggshells and snail shells, sand dollars and conches - bunched in seven distinct groupings, which only made sense to Rhæ and possibly @Daegon, whom was familiar with the religions of the Empire. 

The assortments were added to as Rhælla unwrapped a foxpelt bundle, gingerly removing a few new treasures to add to the cluster of offerings. Once her gifts were neatly arranged, she faced the altars of her father's gods as she always had - starting with the Mother. 

"Offer us your bounty, Mother, let this Isle flourish green and plentiful and our gardens sprout with life. Fill the hearts of my loved ones with peace," she beseeched in the soft melody of Lirean, her tones touched by reverence, before facing the Maid - ignoring her constant doubt that permeated the maiden figurehead. 

"Let Rosencrantz know a measure of your innocence. Help him find light and joy, to put aside his past of rage and war for a future of warmth," she begged, guilt eating at her as she considered her Tactician and all that transpired. 

"Would that you could offer just a shred of your wisdom as I shoulder this responsibility," she smirked slightly as she turned towards the Crone, more confident in this request for the elderly patron cared little about purity. 

"Help us grow strong - fortify our defenses and our wills, strengthen our ties just as you do our muscles so that we might stand together proudly against any threat that might harm us," she beseeched the Warrior before whirling to his brother, the Hunter. "So that we might also fill our stores for the coming winter. We will be smart, we won't overhunt the land or starve - if only you might quicken our reflexes, sharpen our senses, make fleet our paws."

"Help me to know myself - to banish this weakness, this fear within. Make me whole so that I might be with my love," it was this prayer that was the hardest as she whispered to the Father, head bowed and eye slipping shut. "Without fear of myself or what may come, wholly and unconditionally."

"Watch over us," was all she had for the Reaper, a god she had never held much affinity with, shuddering slightly as she faced the last of her pantheon. 

When the soft music of her mother tongue had died she was left in the silence, wondering if even the gods could hear so far from Lirea.