Blackwater Islands weary

the listener's words hovered in the air for a time. she allowed the silence to stretch on, until the girl crawled from the den and spoke. thank you. it was a foreign thing to the wild-furred prophet, to be thanked; she was not created with propriety in mind, and knew nothing of manners. the girl's questions were more familiar; she spoke of their ages, and wondered at how the listener had come to her role.

her muzzle tilted downward to hide the ghost of a smile. it was the first time the expression had come naturally to the listener, who frequently wore only apathy on her face.

i am a shaman. spirit-talker. magick is in my blood, the listener told the red girl. that is why the man brought you here. he seeks my power, the power of the druids. he does not understand it.