Blackwater Islands bruise

so he chose his fate. perhaps it was always meant to be this way. the spirits had gathered with their violent whispers and claws, shrieking their approval in soft breathy voices. perhaps... to be keeper was to give yourself to the madness.

bile burned at the juncture of throat and mouth, threatening to churn itself up and out as she spoke. tell me of wanlida, she murmured numbly, beginning her assessment without fanfare. theirs would not be a union of love, of celebration.

theirs would be a union seething in aether and old, wild magicks; theirs would be a union of destruction.

and their god had led them here.