Witch's Marsh blight

shifting winds; winter into spring; the magick of her season fading like a breath exhaled. the prophet traveled by night, swift as she cut across the land back to her precious islands.

on the third night, the spirits went silent.

almalexia stood alone in a dark place of turbid waters and tall reeds. eyes closed. breath stilled.

the night came alive with whispers once again.

— for him

stay!

you will stay —

him, him, him

wait...

in a blind fury the prophet staked her claim over the marsh. she tore a path of destruction through the wetland. a warning. a beacon. ever dutiful to the spirits, almalexia tucked herself deep within the marsh and fashioned herself some watchful swamp-witch, some vengeful spirit waiting in the night. here she would wait for @Ingram.

she would not wait forever.

when the moon next disappeared from the sky she would seek the refuge of her islands again. until then... she would see what chaos she might sow among these soft valley wolves.

when morning came, the prophet emerged revitalized. she shook out her dark furs and began a slow prowl along the marsh's perimeter. it was ingram she watched the horizon for, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

her islands. her skyrock. her god.