Fairspell Meadow Whiplash

the boy loosened a toothsome sneer, the edges of his thin face crinkling. qiao suddenly remembered the boy’s first trial; how she’d set his round and small frame upon the granitestone dial, called for the spirits of the overworld to come collect their tophet. she cast her first haka — only for the spell to go hideously wrong. as the last word left her lips, she was struck by something blindlingly white. the force of it propelled her backwards, nearly breaking her spine. 

it was a sign from the hidden gods that his purpose laid elsewhere — the cost of her error being the loss of the first two digits in her left paw. 

unlike ephraim, this boy did not have a taotaomona lingering menacingly around him, protecting him from evil. but something lingered, and qiao had learned a bitter lesson that day. 

stormpup earned his name and life that day. he was the first of a long line of child-prices to inconceivably survive their ensouling ritual. 

akashingo’s rhythms are different. she dusted a blade of grass from her pelt and reverted back to their former topic. the tribe may be one of those packs. she recalled their friendliness to her kind. he was just svelte enough he might be welcomed. where is the other?