Wheeling Gull Isle take you to the grave i'll ghost

tzedeq; strange and harsh as it leaves the tongue ... saint hates it.

hates everything about this; though they have long since begrudgingly accepted their fate.

they knew their purpose here. sees it in the threads of their dreams, hears it in the spidery whispers of the daedric prince that chose them.

but still!

they are petulant. fussy. fighting it. because they did not want to be here. they wanted to be with the listener, the divine that birthed them. dare not to call her mother.

a soft huff leaves saint's lips; dissatisfaction stamping itself upon their facial features as their non-cursed eye stares at a spot in the horizon from where they perch outside the mouth of the den.