Blackwater Islands spider

it was time.

the listener kept her distance until she could bear it no longer. until the wispmother's shrieks finally died to silence. she knew that it was done. the children... her children.

the prophet swept into the den like a frigid night breeze, imposing and wild-eyed. her hackles stood feral and razored, her gait stiff as she strode forward to gaze upon the children of her soul. the wispmother, reduced from mentor to mere conduit, faded into the background.

her eyes found the red child. red, red, the color of lies; the color of betrayal. no, she whispered. louder, no! not her, not that bitch, not on these holy islands — !

an ivory flash of teeth, a scarlet slash of blood. the prophet lashed out, and the sacrilegious little life was snuffed in a brutal instant. its blood sprayed across its untainted siblings, staining damp grey fur and marking the tiny bodies in garish crimson.

true druids from first breath, baptized in the blood of sin given life.

you have done well, wispmother.

and the prophet flung the body away, creeping close to lay beside the newborns, to smooth her tongue over their strange smooth heads and murmur the secrets of the aether to their budding souls.