Blackwater Islands ironmask

isangrim; a strange, sly child, her secondborn. the listener studied him as if peering through a microscope at some alien organism. of the trio born to her through the wispmother, he was her least favored, yet at times the prophet thought she loved him more for it. after all, were these islands not a holy sanctum, a refuge to the misfits and outcasts unloved by their brethren? the listener had never sought to make it such, but the will of her god demanded it. those who came would find welcome.

perhaps that was the lesson taught to her in isangrim's birth. his very existence, a message from the unnamed god: these bizarre, broken creatures are my children, and i love them as i love the brightest and most beautiful.

and so she held her middle child close to her heart, though he was cast into shadows by brilliant morgra and even sharp, silent ptolemy. perhaps his own greatness would be found there, in the dark. the listener saw the sheen of intelligence in his innocent blue eyes, though he often seemed tragically average beside his siblings. his was a hidden sort of power, then, and perhaps there was wisdom in that. his foes would underestimate him... but the listener would not.

she waited patiently for the boy to gain his bearings in the moments following his collision with her leg, brushing her nose over his face and head to assure herself that he was unhurt. when it seemed as if she might speak and be heard, the prophet spoke.

do you see? she gestured out over the dark water, shadowy even at the heart of the island. the surface rippled with deceptive serenity. the listener knew better. the waterfall was wide and relentless, the waters churning forcefully beneath. a strong swimmer need not fear, but her children were still too young. she watched isangrim carefully. there is great power there. and great danger, as well. one day, you will learn to master it.