Bearclaw Valley peccato meo munda me

how dare he.

how dare they.

her breath came heavy, and she shook like a bitch of smaller breed.

pacts and prayers and sacrifices, they were everything! as close as they - feeble mortals, sacks of blood and shit decaying even with hearts still beating - could get to harnessing divine energy, making use of that which lurked beyond the non-negotiable confines of reality. this- this brat understood nothing of the esoteric occultism which his father was privy to, the workings of spirits, the way violence and death could be used to earn a glance from the powers greater than they.

but no, this atheistic brat who was handed the reins of his father's cult couldn't conceive that he was shitting all over the legacy so graciously handed down to him by virtue of witchblood. how many would kill to be sired by the seed of such a warlock!

and many more thoughts shot trough her head, but outwardly - bernadette was quivering.

she made no motion besides it. mind thick with thought only a small piece of it registered that the bruin-jaw -- the ungrateful brat - left, alongside the whole reasoning this outing went the way it did.

fine, then. the wife had more sense, more respect in her. she could persuade him to listen, to honour what was promised. and the bearwoman would wait, every single day, within her hovel for a true devotee to arrive and help her ascend beyond the minds these simple savages.

and if not, then may ursus burn.