Wheeling Gull Isle only love myself no more

their path is blocked and the thing they feel building and coiling tight inside them they would come to learn is rage.

even though they have no name for it, saint recoils with the audacity; huffing loudly at the song sang by the older boy.

though they would think that song was quite a claim. the words draw forth a inky hiss from their lips; blind eye staring eerily at the boy while their seeing eye roves, gazing darting to and fro.

but they are not a demon banished by psalms.

something like hysteria bubbles in the witchling's lips instead; a giggle. soft. lovely but barbed like rosethorns.