Witch's Marsh blight

it was her islands which called to her.

but the spirits demanded that she stay, demanded that she bleed, and so the prophet merely twisted away with a scoring of teeth across the dark flank of her assailant. aware of the warm trickle of her own blood into cool waters, she took to her path once again. in truth she cared little for the golden woman and her abomination of a child. the wrongness of them appealed to her, yes,

but it was chaos she truly desired.

curses and abominations call to witches like me, the prophet sang out, and led him through the waters once more.

perhaps he would begin to doubt.