Blackwater Islands dread

ghosts are not sustainable for us. not anymore. not while they inhabited these flesh and mortal bodies, at least. and the dreadfather was not so willing to depart his now that he's made it home.

i would not have you gone so far from me again. speaking first as her husband, and second as her king. oh, how fiercely he has missed her! how he had been able to fool himself into thinking that the aching void in his soul while she had isolated herself away for months could be ignored. and while he's had some modicum of success...he can keenly feel the difference now.

the fire of desire and love and obsession and soultether that had ached like a festering wound in her absence. put in front of it, without any other option than to confront it.

i intend for basilica to be a powerful force of magick in the wilds. to spread the word of the threadbone readers and offer readings in exchange for favors. power gleamed by owed favors and war waged by favors refusing to be returned. this, though, is perhaps still yet too ambitious for their small size. but the seedlings needed to be planted all the same.

there is a pack east of the plateau we've claimed and one to the south. i had thought to seek them individually to begin planting the seeds of our threadbone readings. to nurture potential allies of them, i suppose. though he was not terribly fond of the idea. pick the pack to the east or the south to plant the seeds of basilica and our ambitions and i will go to the other. upon your return to the plateau, tell me how it went. that is your task, wife.

a pause is given; a fluttering stutter of his breath as their eyes meet and her words sink in. as have i, trikova. ingram purls.