Witch's Marsh vanity

her hunt, interrupted.

ah, ingram's woman.

the prophet stilled and regarded her in silence. her body changed by motherhood, her eyes ablaze with a jealous fury for that which could never be hers. did she understand what she sought to hold, to keep?

divinity; did she bleed for it, for him?

did she know the taste of his agony, the hotblooded scent of his fury?

almalexia laughed, a terrible cracking sound.

he will never be yours,

he was mine from the first day.

but she had never needed ingram. perhaps that was what he desired, to feel needed by some small mortal woman who clung to concepts like whoredom as if morality might hold any weight in the emptiness of the beyond.

such petty things her keeper had chosen to concern himself with.

you are a woman; a powerful creature for a mortal. capable. why do you fear his decision? i do not, an arrogant toss of her head, a lash of her tail. he will come, or he will not. this is fact. yet you debase yourself by coming here in desperation.

you would do well to leave this place. run back to your children. i will not trouble you. you are nothing to me.

her plans were much larger than this woman could ever loom.